A thousand places that he'd been to in his dreams
a hundred years have come and gone.
deep in the quarter, Tuesday in New Orleans
he's drinkin' and he's singin' dirty songs.
A thousand ways he tried to break out of the mold
a hundred habits, a hopeless fight.
Cocaine and porter, lids of Acapulco Gold,
singin' a swan song to the night.
A thousand bars along the road to Baton Rouge
a hundred miles to Mobile, Alabam'.
Back in the saddle, and he's gettin' in the mood
counting the minutes to the end.
A thousand faces in the gallery tonight
a hundred voices in the crowd.
Daydreams of Mardi Gras and memories of lights
sounding off, pretending to be proud.
Shotgun shells and whiskey and moonlight.
Final wishes offered up to midnight.
Things that come too fast never last...
They always look better in the twilight.