Testo Nighthawk Postcards - Tom Waits
Testo della canzone Nighthawk Postcards (Tom Waits), tratta dall'album Nighthawks At The Diner
Goodness gracious
That rock bass player should be chained up somewhere
Mongrel, canine, growl
I wanna take you on kind of an inebriational travelogue, here
Ain't got no spare, you ain't got no jack, you don't give a shit
You ain't never coming back
Maybe you're standing on the corner of 17th and Wazee Street
Out in front of the Terminal Bar
There's a Thunderbird moon in a muscatel sky
You've been drinking cleaning products all night
Open for suggestions
It's kind of about, uh
Well, it's kind of about going down to the corner, say
"Well, I'm just going down the corner to get a pack of cigarettes
I'll be back in a minute"
Check out the street and it looks like there's kind of a
Kind of a blurred drizzle down the plate glass
And there's a neon swizzlestick a-stirring up the sultry night air
Looks like a yellow biscuit of a buttery cue ball moon
Rolling maverick across an obsidian sky
And as the buses go groaning and wheezing
Down on the corner I'm freezing
On a restless boulevard and a midnight road
I'm across town from Easy Street
With the tight knots of moviegoers and out-of-towners on the stroll
The buildings towering high above lit like dominoes or black dice
Used car salesmen dressed up in Purina checkerboard slacks
Foster Grant wraparounds
Pacing in front of Rainbow Earl Scheib
$39.95 Merchandise
Like barkers at a shooting gallery
They throw out a Texas queen in routine
"Hello sucker, we like your money
Just as well as anybody else's here
Come on over here now
Let me put the cut back in your strut
And the glide back in your stride
Now climb aboard a custom Oldsmobile
And let me take you for a ride"
They give you that P.T. Barnum bit
"There's a sucker born every minute
You just happened to be coming along at the right time, you know
Come over here"
All the harlequin sailors are on the stroll
In search of like new
New paints and decent factory air and AM/FM dreams
And all the piss-yellow gypsy cabs
They stack up in the taxi zones
And they're waiting like pinball machines
To be ticking off a joyride to a magical place
Like truckers welcome diners
With dirt lots full of Peterbilts
And Kenworths and Jimmys and the like
They're highballed with bankrupt brakes, man
They're overdriven and they're underpaid
They're overfed and they're a day late and a dollar short
But Christ, I got my lips around the bottle
And I got my foot on the throttle
Standing on the corner
Standing on the corner like a just-got-in-town jasper
I'm on a street corner with a gasp
Looking for some kind of a Cheshire or a billboard grin
Stroking a goateed chin
Using parking meters as walking sticks
On the inebriated stroll
With my eyelids propped open at half mast
And I'm standing on the corner
You know over at Chubb's Pool and Snooker
Well it was a nickel after two
Yeah, it was a nickel after two
And in the cobalt steel blue dream smoke
Why it was the radio that groaned out the hit parade
And the chalk squeaked and the floorboards creaked
And an Olympia sign winked through a torn yellow shade
And old Jack Chance himself leaning up against a Wurlitzer
Man, he was eyeballing on a five ball combination shot
Impossible you say? Hard to believe?
Perhaps out of the realm of possibility? Nah
'Cause he be stretching out long tawny fingers
Out across a cool green felt
In a provocative golden gate
He got a full table rail shot that's no sweat
And I leaned up against my banister
Wandered over to the Wurlitzer and I punched a two
I was looking for maybe Wine, Wine, Wine
By the Night Caps starring Chuckie Wise or maybe
Maybe a little something called High Blood Pressure
By George Crying in the Streets Perkins
No dice
That's life, that's what all the people say
You're riding high in April
And you're seriously shot down in May
I know I'm gonna change that tune
When I'm standing underneath a buttery moon
That's all melted off to one side
Parquet
It was just about that time
That the sun came crawling yellow
Out of a manhole at the foot of 23rd Street
And a Dracula moon in a black disguise
Was making its way back to its prepaid room
At the St. Moritz Hotel
And the L-train tumbled across the trestles
And it sounded like the ghost of Gene Krupa
With an overhead cam and glass packs
And the whispering brushes of wet radials on wet pavement
With the traffic jam session on Belmont tonight
And the rhapsody of the pending evening
I leaned up against my banister
And I've been looking for some kind of an emotional investment
With romantic dividends
Yeah, kind of a physical negotiation is underway
Yeah, as I attempt to consolidate
All my missed weekly rendezvous
Into one low monthly payment through the nose
Yeah, with romantic residuals and legs akimbo
But the chances are that more than likely
Standing underneath a moon holding water
I'll probably be held over for another smashed weekend
Thank you
Credits
Writer(s): Thomas Alan Waits
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