steppin off the el to a simple kind of tune in my head
that i'm sure i've never heard before
there's a dharma bum in the doorway reminding me of old days
heading down cornelia 654
johnny walker's on the rocks over sketches of spain
and she's caught in some spanish american war
at the bottom of the glass an hour has passed
and it looks like the nighthawks can't find their way home

i can't ever seem to clear my head
and i'm not sure where the night ends
there's never any rest for the weary when you're out on the road

complimentary drinks and cigarettes
stumbling under nicotine clouds
the closest thing to home in the light of another late night cafe

something unsaid finds it's way into her mouth
something unsaid eager for bread and love