After Los Angeles

I got a hair cut
A dress shirt
A St. Paulie's girl
But I don't need any of that
I got a number on a napkin
A soup can to sing through
A tune in its worst mood
I got a temper like a fistfight
And a tab after midnight
And a right fast woman
And there'll be hell to pay
After Los Angeles
And you won't believe
What I've seen
This town is a workshop for wordsmiths
And grifters and misters and misses
And cheeks full of kisses
And all of you bidders
Can't wait till I'm bitter
I've got a fever like the boulevard summer
And a right fast woman
Bury me beside you when I die
When I'm dead and gone.
Mama sing me to sleep
While you weep
But don't weep at all
You can find me in the back
And if you don't care
Then why did you ask?