| Pulled over at midday
|
| The joker’s still wet behind the ears
|
| He hands off a novel of novice citations outside the service station
|
| The glue sets beneath our heels
|
| My baby’s in Massachusetts
|
| And all this booze is useless
|
| Sunset, sing my scratched-out, sighing soul to sleep
|
| And the cashier here is ruthless
|
| Jeanette, I wrote your name down
|
| But I’d hate that job as much as you do
|
| If I was stuck between
|
| Barton and Binghamton too
|
| Days like this, I miss listening to records
|
| Making coffee together, snowglobes and Jersey sheets
|
| I tried sleeping in our bed without you last night
|
| That didn’t work at all, 'cause I couldn’t sleep
|
| Sometimes, I wish it was still last summer
|
| And you still lived in South Philly
|
| And I wasn’t playing a show in Nebraska, or Austin, Texas
|
| Asking the kids what they ate for breakfast
|
| But here I am, Valero bathroom
|
| Who’s paid to keep these things cliché?
|
| Bury me beneath New York State
|
| It’s the only place where I feel dead
|
| My baby’s in Massachusetts
|
| And all this booze is useless
|
| Sunset, sing my scratched-out, sighing soul to sleep
|
| And the cashier here is ruthless
|
| Jeanette, I wrote your name down
|
| But I’d hate that job as much as you do
|
| If I was stuck between
|
| Barton and Binghamton too |