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Born in 1900, not enough shoes to go around |
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Warsaw for Ellis Island, Massachusetts bound |
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Just a horn and a suitcase, not a hair on his face |
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They told him when he landed that he'd have to find a trade |
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So he built a funeral home and bought a shiny black hearse |
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With his brother at his side, every day they'd get to work |
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Then wash their hands and write music, playing deep into the night |
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Take their band out on the road and finally feel alive |
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Load up the gear, strap on the bass |
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Keep a cigarette lit, burning right at the tip, anything to warm your face |
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Let it burn on down so the windshield doesn't freeze |
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So you don't forget to breathe |
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Driving home from shows on cold New England nights |
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Knew gruesome work was waiting when home greeted with a light |
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Because when there's a light on, there's a cold one |
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A loved one, an old one, a young one, there's always someone |
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There's always curfew at the bars |
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A time to lay down that guitar |
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And every show's gotta end |
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Every night, every life |
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There's always last call |
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Can't always spare time to rehearse |
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Sometimes all you get is time for one verse |
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Rehearse if you can, keep an eye on the time |
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Remember what's coming at the end of the line |
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Soak in the cold, breathe in the air |
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Slam a stiff one back 'cause there's one curfew we all share |
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Load up the gear, strap on the bass |
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Keep a cigarette lit, burning right at the tip, anything to warm your face |
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Let it burn on down so the windshield doesn't freeze |
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So you don't forget to |
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Load up the gear, strap on the bass |
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(Born in 1900, Massachusetts bound) |
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Keep a cigarette lit, burning right at the tip, anything to warm your face |
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Let it burn on down so the windshield doesn't freeze |
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So your eyes don't start to close |
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So you don't forget to be |
