They call me every Friday,
say “Wayne, come raise some hell!”
They swear that little tavern’s
where the local angels fell.
But I just sip my coffee,
and grin like I can’t tell —
I’m goin’ somewhere softer,
where the Wi-Fi don’t do well.
[Chorus]
They play Desolation Row like it’s a holy prayer,
seventeen sad prophets with conditioner in their hair.
Each one’s got a heartbreak, and a loop pedal scar —
oh, they mean it, Lord, they mean it,
at the open mic bar.
Now Jonathan slings cappuccino
with a fair-trade moral ache,
his foam art says “resistance,”
but his tip jar’s full of snakes.
Peter counts the numbers
while he hums about the poor —
he’s got ethics on his spreadsheet
and a conscience in his drawer.
Then Christopher sings softly
’bout a girl that got away,
and Fredrick does the same thing,
just twice as long a way.
Then Theodore plugs in
like he’s stormin’ heaven’s gate,
three chords, two tears, and one more beer —
and I call it “fate adjacent.”
[Chorus]
They play Desolation Row like it’s a holy prayer,
seventeen sad prophets with conditioner in their hair.
Each one’s got a heartbreak, and a loop pedal scar —
yeah they mean it, Lord they mean it,
at the open mic bar.
Now I ain’t countin’ all seventeen —
they’ll name themselves in time.
I last about a half dozen deep
before I start to climb
right out that bathroom window,
into the humid dark sublime.
There’s quieter truths than feedback,
and they rhyme just fine.
[Outro]
So if you see me by the dumpster,
pickin’ chords from old cigar tar,
don’t say I’m missin’ somethin’,
I’m just singin’ where you are.
Yeah, I’m still hummin’ Desolation Row,
but honey, I don’t need the bar.
