The tavern where you worked
was cold and dark as a cavern
You kept quarters in your shirt but I never could just have them
You always made me sweep
around every fly and floozie
Under booths and bums asleep
waking up they’d ask you “who’s he?”
Behind a glass without a glance
“my daughter’s boy,” you would say
While I stood there in a trance
listening to the jukebox play
