Tuesday Afternoon

if there's still hope we could get together
on Tuesday afternoon
I'll buy you drinks we'll watch the crowd
in Wendy's Old Saloon
then we don't have to talk so much
for words could hardly explain
the emptiness that was left behind
by a man we all called Cain

the reading man in the silent corner
who just downed his nineteenth beer
he used to be the hard-hitting drummer
in a band called the Bombardiers
now the band broke up when the singer OD'd
now there's nothing here that he can claim
except the memories of a thousand cheers
and a man we all called Cain

the girl with the dust of the back streets
she's in command of the local bums
she dropped out of school
got pregnant at fifteen then her old man took a run
now the kid's in tears and clinging to her skirts
she asks the drummer for his name
she says you really look a lot
like the man we all called Cain

well this sad old town is merciless
the stories are insane
they're talking of a man we all called Cain

well Brian was in law school where he learned to speak posh
now his voice hollers through the room
because it takes a swine to show you where the truffles are
he's now living on a harvest moon
he claims his clientele is spread over the world
there's even some of them in Spain
and here at Wendy's everybody's thinking back
to the man we all called Cain

like Mary she's thinking of her lover
who pines away in a Spanish jail
he's writing suicide notes to the old folks home
but they can't afford the bail
now Mary's handing out leaflets to raise some cash
goin' up against the grain
and she leaves us staring at this picture
of a man we all called Cain

the man who sells the love's red roses
is trying hard to make ends meet
and the sun that's sinking on his smile
is still hot on a Tangier street
but here at Wendy's all the gents are selling something
and they're goin Dutch with every dame
but then the rose man he never had no business
with the man we all called Cain

well this sad old town is merciless
the stories are insane
they're talking of a man we all called Cain

Abel he used to be in business
with the man we all called Cain
they got into trouble for trafficking K's
in the capital of Spain
now apparently some blood was shed
before Abel had the other one framed
he anxiously awaits the coming home
of a man we all called Cain

now the painters here hardly ever paint
and the poets never write
behaviorist philosophers
they all bark but they never bite
me I'm only passing through
until the next goodbye
well this sad old town is merciless
the stories are insane
they're talking of a man we all called Cain