The candles flicker in the dark
in rhythm, as the record plays.
Seated at the tavern are kindred spirits
soon to be in a daze.
It’s ’round midnight round here
but no one seems to know.
They talk of men of letters
but seldom hear the trumpet blow.
Outside, the low winds sweep
softly, like a delicate suede—
up the hill and into the distance
like smoke from a fire fade.
It’s ’round midnight round here
but no one has anywhere to go.
They talk and sip and talk and sip
but seldom hear the trumpet blow.
At the bar, a man turns to a woman
curiously, his cigarette awaiting a flame.
He proceeds to make an inquiry,
implying a rumor of her ill-fame.
It’s ’round midnight round here
but no one has left skid row.
They talk of yesterday’s tomorrow
but seldom hear the trumpet blow.
The candles flicker in the dark
in rhythm, as the record plays.
Seated at the tavern are kindred spirits
now all in a daze.
