Songwriting confidential #44


Anyone who hangs out in the Diner of Broken Dreams knows the lick,. you spill your lingo like a spoiler prophet whose put to many hours in over at Dalton's underwear factory putting elastic in waist lines till your fingernails bleed,.you clock out, hit a roach in the parking lot before you mosey up town, looking in the window of Omar Bunty's mens store, checkin out the caged rabbits in Coon's pet shop, and then in that hot July swagger you cross the burning street slinking into the Diner of Broken Dreams, slumping into your usual booth with the ripped red naugahyde seat up front near the window with the hopes of seeing Gertrude Dott come out of Gussies beauty parlor for a smoke all slinky and hot, her corn silk hair scatting in the boiling breeze of a Tennessee afternoon; you feel like weeping but you order pie and begin to scribble a song on a crumbled napkin.