"When you're sitting up too late, and I have gone to bed,
And the TV flickers bluely in your aching head,
And you're staring out a window at a parking lot," you said.
"Turn out the lights."
I could hear the neon buzzing through the sweating pane of glass,
"Come on in" the tubing mumbled in the night.
I ran my finger down the pane, I wrote and then erased your name,
The shower door slid open and she came into the room,
And looked at me and smiled, "Isn't it too bright?
Turn out the lights."
In the morning restaurant the tablecloths are stiff and white,
There are flowers made of plastic on each one.
The silverware is gleaming like a polished bayonet in flight,
A woman takes our orders and writes them with a frown,
And for a second it's another Sunday morning, in another Sunday town.
And later on, alone, I am sitting in my car.
There is a hint of some perfume and sun bleached leather.
I can't stand the radio--how can they preach to eskimos?
I watch the cars whiz by, time my mistake to a semi,
I'll be coming home to baby. . . . by and by.
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