Like a scene from a film you know'll have a cult,
it seems cliché to say that it'd be night
or that it'd be rainin' like it'd never started
and you'd be out
walkin' as quickly as you ever had,
your eyes rovin' 'bout in search o' cover
'cause this'd be a day you forgot your coat.

And then on your less dominate side,
you'd hear a stifled plea worth acceptin'
down the only alleyway darker than everythin',
'cept for a flickerin' light 'cause no one cared,
'bove a door that can hardly close.

You'd have no money in your pocket
in this part of a city only a mind could create,
but it wouldn't matter
'cause I'd be willin' to pay for you to come in,
to sit in the back, near the door I mean,
at some stereotypically round table
and drink 'til this all made sense.

In this poorly lit club...
Who'm I kiddin'?
It'd just be some bar with a bit more class
in the form of music no one wants to hear.

Yeah, outside it'd be rainin',
but those clouds would follow you in.
And then some girl who'd heard it all before
would 'proach your table like she's leavin' you a tip,
and'd ask what you're havin'.

"What is this, bluesy jazz
or jazzy blues?" You'd say.
"I don't know…
'Guess whichever one's worse."
As she'd walk away.

There I'd be,
up on my plywood box
covered with aged, cheap commercial carpet
and torn at the corners while in the hands of God,
cryin' to ya like I'd once known peace.

You see,
if I were an instrument,
I'd be a horn playin' only the loneliest
of jazzy blues;
and that's what it'd be,
'cause I'd be played in a club that no one's heard of,
and you'd only be there to get from which you came,
and my musician would've lost all interest in his work
a long, long time ago,
and I'd always
be muted...