Thursday's Flight - Modern Music Temperance Society

I went down to the gathering
At the cavernous meeting hall
The Modern Music Temperance Society
Was the sign on the wall
Circled chairs with three stony souls
Six empties between each
I nodded slow as I sat down
And pulled out a fuzzy peach

Chose my spot between the old man
With frilly ascot and white wig
And the stringy-haired ghost pale greaser
That I mistook for a twig
Then he began to sing, and he began to swing

Across the circle, dark skin high cheeks
The big-boned lady pressed flat
Her flower dress with dignity and purpose
Slapping thighs, rat a tat tat
She called the meeting to order
As she eyed my thick head of hair
Mullet down my prickly red neck
Welcome, welcome stranger fair

To what do we owe this honor
Her languid voice velvet liquid
Oh, I'm just so damn weary
Mono-crap formulaic sickness
On the radio today
Where's the good old days

Here, here said the wig
Draggin' lip hangin' cig

Written by:
Garrison Locke, Greg McGee, Hugh Willard, Patrick Lucey

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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