There's a bar down at Four Corners
where good dreams go to die.
The place is dingy and dirty and
the back is dark enough
nobody sees the tears if you cry.
They got misery on tap
for fifty-five cents on a glass.
You can maybe get laid
or maybe get played;
On a wild night you just might
have somebody kick your ass.
The smell is always a little sour;
There is never any happy hour.
The minds are all bleary;
all the hearts are full of holes
and, if you look outside
the streets are paved with restless souls.
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