One more night in a transatlantic city
And the clocks all run on someone else's time
And the streets run so close to the houses,
But none of them run into mine.

And the people are all in a hurry
And the whiskey's as cheap as the beer.
And that skyline looks just like that postcard I sent 
you,
And darling, I wish that you were here.

Some folks travel for pleasure
And other folks just born to roam.
Some folks can't stand the pressure
And some of them never come home.

And I only go where I have to go
And I only come home when I'm done.
And if everything's right, then I'll be home Friday 
night,
Six hours ahead of the sun.

One more night in a transatlantic city
And you buy one round for everyone in sight
And you order up the same old glass of trouble
But trouble just don't taste the same tonight.

And the local bartender tells you all the stories
And the local lovelies dance before your eyes.
And they call that dance old "Younger's Tartan"
And I can't get all this mud out of my eyes.

Some folks drink when they're happy,
Other folks drink when they're dry.
Some folks drink so they won't have to think
And some other drink until they die.

But drinking just gives me amnesia
But the devil has a list of those who run.
Run, win, place, and show, and nowhere to go,
And six hours ahead of the sun.

Run, win, place, and show and nowhere to go,
And six hours ahead of the sun.