Elliott Street Pub: The Neighborhood's Tap

Lyrics

The floorboards talk when the freight train comes.
A little shiver in the glass.
Hello, old friend.

It's four o'clock on a Tuesday.
Elliott Street is sleeping in the sun.
The light cuts through the big front window,
finds the scratches on the long wood bar.
Just the hum of the cooler, the murmur from the corner booth.
This is where the quiet lives,
between the deadlines and the crowds.

You're the living room, you're the anchor lock.
You catch the spillover from the stadium clock.
You hold the painters' talk on a Second Friday night.
You take the film crews hiding from the bright set light.
You're just four walls on a brick-lined block,
but you hold all of us. You hold the stock.

Then the game day roar spills down the hill.
A river of red and black, a different kind of thrill.
Or the gallery doors swing open wide,
and the wine-warmed artists all pour inside.
And you just expand. You make more room.
You soak up the joy, you soak up the gloom.
The noise doesn't break you. It just fills you up.

You're the living room, you're the anchor lock.
You catch the spillover from the stadium clock.
You hold the painters' talk on a Second Friday night.
You take the film crews hiding from the bright set light.
You're just four walls on a brick-lined block,
but you hold all of us. You hold the stock.

I wonder what ghosts drink here with me.
The box factory foreman from 1923?
That actor who played a zombie on TV,
left a little piece of his makeup on booth three.
You don't say much. You just watch it all pass.
Reflected in the bottom of my glass.

Last call.
The chairs go up.
The train sings its long, low song.
Goodnight, old friend.
See you tomorrow.