Last Round Trio: Blackstone / Blarney / Banknote

Lyrics

Peachtree Street.
Five-thirty on the dot.
The tickers go quiet.
The sidewalks get hot.
Another day's paper put to bed.
Time to wet the whistle, and clear the head.

Down the steps to the Blackstone.
Past the polished brass rail.
The air is thick with history... and a bit of something stale.
Old Bill Haire behind the bar, polishing a glass.
He sees you coming, knows your order before you even ask.
Red leather booths hold the secrets of the city's biggest men.
Chuck Miller's at the corner, with a deadline and a pen.
A whiskey sour seals a deal that won't make the morning news.
Just a low murmur, the clink of ice... paying your evening dues.

Oh, the Last Round Trio... a three-part harmony.
The Blackstone, the Blarney, and the Banknote Company.
One for the whisper, one for the shout.
The places you went when the day ran out.
Yeah, the Last Round Trio, down on banker's row.
The only real business after the whistles blow.

Now, a few doors down, the Blarney Stone is green and loud.
March seventeenth, nineteen eighty-five, packed in with the crowd.
Smell of spilled Guinness, damp wool coats, a fiddle in the air.
Singing songs about Dublin, without a single care.
No quiet deals in here, just a toast to being alive.
A different kind of currency... the kind that helps you thrive.

Oh, the Last Round Trio... a three-part harmony.
The Blackstone, the Blarney, and the Banknote Company.
One for the whisper, one for the shout.
The places you went when the day ran out.
Yeah, the Last Round Trio, down on banker's row.
The only real business after the whistles blow.

And the Banknote bars... no names you'd recall.
Just a quiet little hideout, a payphone on the wall.
Where the numbers men would sit and stare into their gin.
Washing off the trading floor, and the places they had been.
All that dark wood soaked it up.
Every win, and every sin.

The Last Round Trio!
Blackstone!
Blarney!
Banknote!
Gone now.
All gone now.
Just the echo of the band...