Small Change

(and see my baby on montgomery avenue)

Well i don't mind working
Cause i used to be jerkin off
Most of my time in the bars
I 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 lite
On for me
I'm disheveled i'm disdainful
And i'm distracted and it's painful
But this job sweeping up here is
Is gainfully employing me tonight

Tom do this tom do that
Tom, don't do that
Count the cash, clean the oven
Dump the trash oh your lovin
Is a rare and a copasetic gift
And i'm a moonlight watchmanic
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, clean um good
Oh your lovin i wish you would
Come down here and sweepameoffmyfeet
This broom'll have to be my baby
If i hurry, i just might
Get off before the dawns early light.

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)

(got rained on with his own .38)

Well small change got rained on with his own .38
And nobody flinched down by the arcade
And the marquise 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 mannikins with their
Cheshire grins
And the raconteurs
And roustabouts said buddy
Come on in
Cause the dreams ain't broken down here now
Now ...they're walking with a limp
Now that

Small change got rained on with his own .38"
And nobody flinched down by the arcade
And the burglar alarm's been disconnected
And the newsmen start to rattle
And the cops are tellin' jokes
About some whore house in seattle
And the fire hydrants plead the 5th amendment
And the furniture's bargains galore
But the blood is by the jukebox
On an old linoleum floor
And it's a hot rain on 42nd street
And now the umbrellas ain't got a chance
And the newsboy's a lunatic
With stains on his pants cause

Small change got rained on with his own .38
And no one's gone over to close his eyes
And there's a racing form in his pocket
Circled "blue boots" in the 3rd
And the cashier at the clothing store
He didn't say a word as the
Siren tears the night in half
And someone lost his wallet
Well it's surveillance of assailants
If that's whatchawannacallit
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
Now she won't let you kiss her
But what the hell do you expect
And the gypsies are tragic and if you
Wanna to buy perfume, well
They'll bark you down like
Carneys... sell you christmas cards in june
But...

Small change got rained on with his own .38
And his headstone's
A gumball machine
No more chewing gum
Or baseball cards or
Overcoats or dreams and
Someone is hosing down the sidewalk
And he's only in his teens

Small change got rained on with his own .38
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
Small change got rained on with his own .38
Yea small change got rained on with his own .38

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'

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

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