Fridays are getting a makeover around here

I have noticed that a few of the flist have Friday specials, I am aware also that the monkey (bless his little cotton socks) was a fan of the Friday music videos.

After a few thoughts, my plan is to revive the worst album covers of all time, that only made two entries last year and also go for the Friday lyric slot.

Every week I’m going to take a song that has wonderful lyrics and post those lyrics for your enjoyment. I’m also going to dedicate the lyrics to one of my flist, for whatever reason.

And so we start today with my god of modern music Tom Waits and his fabulous track Small Change, from 1976. I dedicate this one to


, fellow Tom devotees!

Small change got rained on with his own .38
And nobody flinched down by the arcade
And the marquise weren’t weeping
They went stark-raving mad
And the cabbies were the only ones
That really had it made
And his cold trousers were twisted
And the sirens high and shrill
And crumpled in his fist was a five-dollar bill
And the naked mannikins with their
Cheshire grins
And the raconteurs
And roustabouts said buddy
Come on in
Cause, cause the dreams ain’t broken down here now
Now, they’re walking with a limp
Now that small change got rained on with his own .38

And nobody flinched down by the arcade
And the burglar alarm’s been disconnected
And the newsmen start to rattle
And the cops are tellin’ jokes
About some whore house in Seattle
And the fire hydrants plead the 5th Amendment
And the furniture’s bargains galore
But the blood is by the jukebox
On an old linoleum floor
And what a hot rain on 42nd Street
And now the umbrellas ain’t got a chance
And the newsboy’s a lunatic
With stains on his pants
Cause, cause small change got rained on with his own .38

And no one’s gone over to close his eyes
And there’s a racing form in his pocket
Circled “Blue Boots” in the 3rd
And the cashier at the clothing store
He didn’t say a word as the
Siren tears the night in half
And someone lost his wallet
Well it’s surveillance of assailants
If that’s whatchawannacallit
And the whores hike up their skirts
And fish for drug-store prophylactics
With their mouths cut just like
Razor blades and their eyes are like stilettos
And her radiator’s steaming
And her teeth are in a wreck
Now she won’t let you kiss her
But what the hell do you expect
And the Gypsies are tragic and if you
Wanna to buy perfume, well
They’ll bark you down like
Carneys… sell you Christmas cards in June
But, but small change got rained on with his own .38

And his headstone’s
A gumball machine
No more chewing gum
Or baseball cards or
overcoats or dreams and
someone is hosing down the sidewalk
and he’s only in his teens
Cause, cause small change got rained on with his own .38

And a fistful of dollars can’t change that
And someone copped his watch fob
And someone got his ring
And the newsboy got his porkpie Stetson hat
And the tuberculosis old men
At the Nelson wheeze and cough
And someone will head south
Until this whole thing cools off cause

Small change got rained on with his own .38
Yea small change got rained on with his own .38

About Mark S. Deniz

English teacher, writer, editor, publisher, reviewer and blogger. Founder of publishing company, Morrigan Books and imprint, Gilgamesh Press and editor-in-chief for review site, Beyond Fiction. Also cycles, plays floorball, listens to lots and lots of music, reads a ton of books and tries to fit in some TV, film and writing too. View all posts by Mark S. Deniz

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