MOG

And her teeth are in a wreck, and nah
And the fire hydrants plead the 5th Amendment
And the naked mannequins with their cheshire grins

And nobody flinched down by the arcade
And the furniture is bargains galore
And the raconteurs and roustabouts said "Buddy, come on in"
And their eyes are like stilettos and her radiator's steaming

And now the umbrellas ain't got a chance

But, but Small Change got rained on with his own .38
'Cause, 'cause Small Change got rained on with his own .38
And the cops are telling jokes

And the tuberculosis old men at the Nelson wheeze and cough
And the cashier at the clothing store didn't say a word
And the cabbies were the only ones
They went stark-raving mad
'Cause, 'cause Small Change got rained on with his own .38
And the marquees weren't weeping
And the newsboy got his pork pie Stetson hat
And the gypsies are tragic and if you want to buy perfume
'Cause, 'cause the dreams ain't broken down here now
With their mouths cut just like razor blades
But the blood is by the jukebox on an old linoleum floor
No more chewing gum or baseball cards or overcoats or dreams
'Cause, 'cause Small Change got rained on with his own .38
And someone will head south until this whole thing cools off

She won't let you kiss her but what the hell do you expect?
Sell you Christmas cards in June
And there's a racing form in his pocket circled 'Blue Boots' in the third
Well, they'll bark you down like carnys
And someone copped his watch fob, and someone got his ring
And the newsmen start to rattle
Someone's hosing down the sidewalk, and he's only in his teens
And the newsboy's a lunatic with stains on his pants

As the siren tears the night in half and someone lost his wallet
And crumpled in his fist was a five-dollar bill
And no one's gone over to close his eyes
Well, a surveillance of assailants if that's what you wanna to call it
And the burglar alarms been disconnected
Now that Small Change got rained on with his own .38
About some whorehouse in Seattle

And the whores hike up their skirts and fish for drug-store prophylactics
They're walking with a limp
And what a hot rain on 42nd Street
That really had it made
And his cold trousers were twisted and the sirens high and shrill
And a fistful of dollars can't change that
And his headstone's a gum ball machine