Let the waitress put the chairs up, let the glasses that she
broke form a picture of our leader with a halo made of
smoke. Let the Golden Oldies station crackle and come
through with a final benediction we'll hum along to, before we
say goodnight. Let our talk about the ballgame and the
weather show we care, like a sound we didn't notice until it
stopped and left us there with the traffic and our heartbeats
beating in straight time. Let our hatred and affection march in
the same line, before we say goodnight. Oh, protect our
secret handshake. Once more, with feeling, let the toast to
absent members push through the ceiling, before we say
goodnight.