A slightly larger small town,
I sit on a barstool.
My friend who doesn't want to leave on my right,
A stream of acquaintances stopping to chat on my left.
Karaoke in the next room,
And where did THAT come from?
All of a sudden three beers makes everyone a singer.
So when I wanna go out and can't find a good band,
I get Mr. Clean with a weight problem thinking he's Billy Joel.
Someone puts money in the jukebox.
I get up and shut the door on Mr. Clean.
A son of a son of a son of a sailor tells me that,
"Come Monday, it'll be all right."
I didn't even know that it was all wrong.
But now that he mentions it......
I listen to his words and wonder,
How can anyone complain about four lonely days?
Hey! Son of a son of a son of a sailor, try nine lonely years--
And Monday never comes.