| Spec’s almost drowned off the coast of California
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| And started this museum
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| To help the shipwrecked remember
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| They grow quiet
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| The sea grows colder
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| Drinking the night away
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| Burn bridges grow older
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| Kent worked at Spec’s since 1970
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| Right after Haight Street finally choked on its own vomit
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| An impartial smile made him a gentleman
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| Some bartenders have the gift of pardon
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| A bar has a longer history than a country
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| What keeps the moon chained
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| Are ridiculous acts of faith
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| And after a couple of drinks
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| Visionary eyes all burn
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| The drunks seem saint-like
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| In their disillusion
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| Kent always knew the serious nature of a smile
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| Knew the serious nature of the job he was given
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| Never told himself there’s only so much a man could take on
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| Some bartenders have the gift of pardon
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| With the same old tape wearing out in the background
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| Billie Holiday «Solitude»
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| Or some sad old Irish folk songs
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| You’re not promised the moon
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| Or lied to by its distractions
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| You enter the world alone
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| And that’s the first and the last thing
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| It seems one night he was having a hard time falling asleep
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| And found himself in an accidental shipwreck
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| Dreaming he’s still at the bar counting sheep
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| The cold ocean threw its chains around his neck
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| Never have to worry about counterfeits at 2 a. |
| m
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| 'Cause that’s all there is
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| 'Cause that’s all there is
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| Just some old poets drinking
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| The last nightmare in
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| And the comfort of the dark
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| And being forgotten
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| Some bartenders have the gift of pardon
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| Some bartenders have the gift of pardon |