After Los Angeles

I got a hair cut

A dress shirt

A St. Paulie's girl

But I don't need any of thatI got a number on a napkin

A soup can to sing through

A tune in its worst mood

I got a temper like a fistfightAnd a tab after midnight

And a right fast woman

And there'll be hell to pay

After Los AngelesAnd you won't believe

What I've seen

This town is a workshop for wordsmiths

And grifters and misters and missesAnd cheeks full of kisses

And all of you bidders

Can't wait till I'm bitter

I've got a fever like the boulevard summerAnd a right fast woman

Bury me beside you when I die

When I'm dead and gone.

Mama sing me to sleepWhile you weep

But don't weep at all

You can find me in the back

And if you don't careThen why did you ask?