Sunday

There’s a shoot-out at the Eye-hop
Between a forth ward kid and a third shift cop
Two time losers drinking coffee
And no one saw a thing
Crank out, crack out, it’s hard to tell
But you can’t see his face now too well
He can in empty handed with a gun stuck in his jeans
And the cop orders the New York club
So the waitress steps around the blood
The last reminding sliver of some
South flying dream
Now the cops are telling jokes
About some whore-house near Fair Oaks
And the rhinos shuffle past
The last to survey the scene
And in an hour and a quarter
All their paper work’s in order
So they finish off their pancakes
While the floor is getting cleaned
And a body car arrives and takes…
And they’re taking down the yellow tape
And they’ll all get home before daybreak
Like Sunday in New Orleans
And the cop orders the New York club
So the waitress steps around the blood
The last remaining sliver of some
South flying dream
Mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm
Oooh, oooh, ooooh