Wasted and wounded, it ain't what the moon did, I've got what I paid for now See you tomorrow, hey Frank, can I borrow a couple of bucks from you To go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me I'm an innocent victim of a blinded alley And I'm tired of all these soldiers here No one speaks English, and everything's broken, and my Stacys are soaking wet To go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me Now the dogs are barking and the taxi cab's parking A lot they can do for me I begged you to stab me, you tore my shirt open, And I'm down on my knees tonight Old Bushmill's I staggered, you'd bury the dagger In your silhouette window light go To go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me Now I lost my Saint Christopher now that I've kissed her And the one-armed bandit knows And the maverick Chinamen, and the cold-blooded signs, And the girls down by the strip-tease shows, go Waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me No, I don't want your sympathy, the fugitives say That the streets aren't for dreaming now And manslaughter dragnets and the ghosts that sell memories, They want a piece of the action anyhow Go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me And you can ask any sailor, and the keys from the jailor, And the old men in wheelchairs know And Mathilda's the defendant, she killed about a hundred, And she follows wherever you may go Waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me And it's a battered old suitcase to a hotel someplace, And a wound that will never heal No prima donna, the perfume is on an Old shirt that is stained with blood and whiskey And goodnight to the street sweepers, the night watchmen flame keepers And goodnight to Mathilda, too
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Well, I'm a jitterbug boy, by the shoe-shine Resting on my laurels and my hardys too Life of Riley on a swing shift, gears follow my drift Once upon a time I was in show-biz too I seen the Brooklyn Dodgers playing at Ebbets Field Seen the Kentucky Derby too It's fast women, slow horses, unreliable sources, And I'm holding up the lamp-post if you want to know I've seen the Wabash Cannonball, buddy, I've done it all 'Cause I slept with the lions and Marilyn Monroe, Had breakfast in the eye of a hurricane Fought Rocky Marciano, played Minnesota Fats, Burned hundred-dollar bills, I've eaten Mulligan stew Got drunk with Louis Armstrong, what's that old song? I taught Mickey Mantle everything that he knows So you ask me what I'm doing here holding up the lamp-post, Flipping this quarter, trying to make up my mind And if it's heads I go to Tennessee, and tails I buy a drink, If it lands on the edge I keep talking to you (scat)
Well, I wish I was in New Orleans, I can see it in my dreams, Arm-in-arm down Burgundy, a bottle and my friends and me Hoist up a few tall cool ones, play some pool and listen To that tenor saxophone calling me home And I can hear the band begin "When the Saints Go Marching In", And by the whiskers on my chin, New Orleans, I'll be there I'll drink you under the table, be red-nosed, go for walks, The old haunts what I wants is red beans and rice And wear the dress I like so well, and meet me at the old saloon, Make sure that there's a Dixie moon, New Orleans, I'll be there And deal the cards roll the dice, if it ain't that old Chuck E. Weiss, And Claiborne Avenue, me and you Sam Jones and all And I wish I was in New Orleans, 'cause I can see it in my dreams, Arm-in-arm down Burgundy, a bottle and my friends and me New Orleans, I'll be there
The piano has been drinking, my necktie is asleep And the combo went back to New York, the jukebox has to take a leak And the carpet needs a haircut, and the spotlight looks like a prison break And the telephone's out of cigarettes, and the balcony is on the make And the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking... And the menus are all freezing, and the light man's blind in one eye And he can't see out of the other And the piano-tuner's got a hearing aid, and he showed up with his mother And the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking As the bouncer is a Sumo wrestler cream-puff casper milktoast And the owner is a mental midget with the I.Q. of a fence post 'Cause the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking... And you can't find your waitress with a Geiger counter And she hates you and your friends and you just can't get served without her And the box-office is drooling, and the bar stools are on fire And the newspapers were fooling, and the ash-trays have retired 'Cause the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking The piano has been drinking, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me
Well she's up against the register with an apron and a spatula, Yesterday's deliveries, tickets for the bachelors She's a moving violation from her conk down to her shoes, Well, it's just an invitation to the blues And you feel just like Cagney, she looks like Rita Hayworth At the counter of the Schwab's drugstore You wonder if she might be single, she's a loner and likes to mingle Got to be patient, try and pick up a clue She said "How you gonna like 'em, over medium or scrambled?", You say "Anyway's the only way", be careful not to gamble On a guy with a suitcase and a ticket getting out of here It's a tired bus station and an old pair of shoes This ain't nothing but an invitation to the blues But you can't take your eyes off her, get another cup of java, It's just the way she pours it for you, joking with the customers Mercy mercy, Mr. Percy, there ain't nothing back in Jersey But a broken-down jalopy of a man I left behind And the dream that I was chasing, and a battle with booze And an open invitation to the blues But she used to have a sugar daddy and a candy-apple Caddy, And a bank account and everything, accustomed to the finer things He probably left her for a socialite, and he didn't 'cept at night, And then he's drunk and never even told her that her cared So they took the registration, and the car-keys and her shoes And left her with an invitation to the blues 'Cause there's a Continental Trailways leaving local bus tonight, good evening You can have my seat, I'm sticking round here for a while Get me a room at the Squire, the filling station's hiring, And I can eat here every night, what the hell have I got to lose? Got a crazy sensation, go or stay? now I gotta choose, And I'll accept your invitation to the blues
Smelling like a brewery, looking like a tramp, I ain't got a quarter, got a postage stamp Been five o'clock shadow boxing all around the town, Talking with the old man, sleeping on the ground Bazanti bootin al zootin al hoot and Al Cohn Sharing this apartment with a telephone pole And a fish-net stocking, spike-heel shoes, Strip tease, prick tease, car keys blues And the porno floor show, live nude girls, Dreamy and creamy and brunette curls Chesty Morgan and Watermelon Rose Raise my rent and take off all your clothes With trench coats, magazines, a bottle full of rum, She's so good, make a dead man come Pasties and a G-string, beer and a shot Portland through a shot glass and a Buffalo squeeze Wrinkles and Cherry and Twinkie and Pinkie and Fifi live from Gay Paree Fanfares, rim shots, back stage, who cares, all this hot burlesque for me (scat) Cleavage, cleavage, thighs and hips From the nape of her neck to the lipstick lips Chopped and channeled and lowered and lewd And the cheater slicks and baby moons She's a-hot and ready, creamy and sugared And the band is awful and so are the tunes (scat) Crawling on her belly, and shaking like jelly, And I'm getting harder than Chinese algebrassieres And cheers from the (hmm) compendium here "Hey sweetheart" they're yelling for more You're squashing out your cigarette butts on the floor And I like Shelly, and you like Jane And what was the girl with the snakeskin's name? And it's an early-bird matinee, come back any day, Get you a little something that you can't get at home Get you a little something that you can't get at home It's pasties and a G-string, beer and a shot Portland through a shot glass and a Buffalo squeeze Popcorn, front row, higher than a kite, and I'll be back tomorrow night, And I'll be back tomorrow night (scat)
Well I got a bad liver and a broken heart, Yeah, I drunk me a river since you tore me apart And I don't have a drinking problem, 'cept when I can't get a drink And I wish you'd a-known her, we were quite a pair, She was sharp as a razor and soft as a prayer So welcome to the continuing saga, She was my better half, and I was just a dog And so here am I slumped, I've been chipped and I've been chumped on my stool So buy this fool some spirits and libations, it's these railroad station bars And all these conductors and the porters, and I'm all out of quarters And this epitaph is the aftermath, yeah I choose my path, hey, come on, Kath, He's a lawyer, he ain't the one for ya No, the moon ain't romantic, it's intimidating as hell, And some guy's trying to sell me a watch And so I'll meet you at the bottom of a bottle of bargain Scotch I got me a bottle and a dream, it's so maudlin it seems, You can name your poison, go on ahead and make some noise I ain't sentimental, this ain't a purchase, it's a rental, and it's purgatory, And hey, what's your story, well I don't even care 'Cause I got my own double-cross to bear And I'll see your Red Label, and I'll raise you one more, And you can pour me a cab, I just can't drink no more, 'Cause it don't douse the flames that are started by dames, It ain't like asbestos It don't do nothing but rest us assured, And substantiate the rumors that you've heard.
Well this gigolo's jumping salty, ain't no trade out on the streets, Half past the unlucky, and the hawk's a front-row seat Dressed in full orchestration, stage-door Johnny's got to pay, And sent him home talking 'bout the one that got away Could have been on Easy Street, could have been a wheel, With irons in the fire and all them business deals But the last of the big-time losers shouted before he drove away, "I'll be right back, as soon as I crack the one that got away" Well, the ambulance drivers, they don't give a shit, They just want to get off work, and The short stop and the victim are already gone berserk And the shroud-tailor measures him for a deep-six holiday, The stiff is froze, the case is closed on the one that got away Now Jim Crow's directing traffic with them cemetery blues, With them peculiar-looking trousers, them old Italian shoes And a wooden kimono that was all ready to drop in San Francisco Bay But he's mumbling something all about the one that got away And Costello was the champion at the St. Moritz Hotel, And the best this side of Fairfax, reliable sources tell But his reputation is at large, and he's at Ben Frank's every day, Waiting for the one that got away He got a snakeskin sportshirt, and he looks like Vincent Price, With a little piece of chicken, and he's carving off a slice Someone tipped her off, and she'll be doing a Houdini now any day She shook his hustle, and a Greyhound bus'll take the one that got away Well, Andre's at the piano behind the Ivar in the sewers, With a buck a shot for pop tunes, and a fin for guided tours He could-a been in "Casa Blanca", he stood in line out there all day Now he's spilling whiskey and learning songs about a one that got away Well I've lost my equilibrium and my car keys and my pride, The tattoo parlor's warm, and so I hustle there inside And the grinding off the buzz-saw, "What you want that thing to say?" I says, "Just don't misspell her name, buddy, she's the one that got away"
Small Change got rained on with his own thirty-eight, And nobody flinched down by the arcade And the marquees weren't weeping, they went stark-raving mad, And the cabbies were the only ones that really had it made And his cold trousers were twisted, and the sirens high and shrill, And crumpled in his fist was a five-dollar bill And the naked mannequins with their Cheshire grins, And the raconteurs and roustabouts said "Buddy, come on in, 'cause 'Cause the dreams ain't broken down here now, they're walking with a limp Now that Small Change got rained on with his own thirty-eight" And nobody flinched down by the arcade And the burglar alarm's been disconnected, And the newsmen start to rattle And the cops are telling jokes about some whorehouse in Seattle And the fire hydrants plead the Fifth Amendment And the furniture is bargains galore But the blood is by the jukebox on an old linoleum floor And what a hot rain on Forty-Second Street, And now the umbrellas ain't got a chance And the newsboy's a lunatic with stains on his pants, 'cause 'Cause Small Change got rained on with his own thirty-eight And no one's gone over to close his eyes And there's a racing form in his pocket, Circled "Blue Boots" in the third And the cashier at the clothing store didn't say a word As the siren tears the night in half, and someone lost his wallet Well, a surveillance of assailance, it that's what you want to call it And the whores hike up their skirts and fish for drug-store prophylactics With their mouths cut just like razor blades and their eyes are like stilettos And her radiator's steaming and her teeth are in a wreck, and nah, She won't let you kiss her, but what the hell do you expect? And the Gypsies are tragic and if you want to buy perfume, Well, they'll bark you down like carneys, sell you Christmas cards in June, but But Small Change got rained on with his own thirty-eight And his headstone's a gumball machine, No more chewing gum or baseball cards or overcoats or dreams Someone's hosing down the sidewalk, and he's only in his teens, 'cause 'Cause Small Change got rained on with his own thirty-eight And a fistful of dollars can't change that, And someone copped his watch fob, and someone got his ring And the newsboy got his porkpie Stetson hat And the tuberculosis old men at the Nelson wheeze and cough And someone will head south until this whole thing cools off, 'cause 'Cause Small Change got rained on with his own thirty-eight, yeah, Small Change got rained on with his own thirty-eight
I don't mind working, 'cause I used to be jerking off most of my time in bars, I've been a cabbie and a stock clerk and a soda-fountain jock-jerk And a manic mechanic on cars. It's nice work if you can get it, now who the hell said it? I got money to spend on my gal, But the work never stops, and I'll be busting my chops Working for Joe and Sal. And I can't wait to get off work and see my baby, She said she'd leave the porch light on for me. I'm disheveled and I'm disdainful and I'm distracted and it's painful, But this job sweeping up here is gainfully employing me tonight. Well "Tom, do this" and "Tom, do that", and "Tom, don't do that", Count the cash, clean the oven, dump the trash, Oh your loving is a rare and a copacetic gift, And I'm a moonlight watch manic, it's hard to be romantic Sweeping up over by the cigarette machine, Sweeping up over by the cigarette machine... I can't wait to get off work and see my baby She'll be waiting up with a magazine for me. Clean the bathrooms and clean 'em good, oh your loving I wish you would Come down here and sweep a-me off my feet, this broom'll have to be my baby, If I hurry, I just might get off before the dawn's early light.