Money in the tip jar
Playing my beat up old guitar, I’m in the window of a smokey bar. Hoping that you’ll like my songs enough to put some of your money, there in the tip jar, but there’s no beer on the piano and it’s getting so hot in here, but I’m still there standing in the window and it’s getting too late I fear. ‘Cause the boys are getting rowdy and I keep on singing still, the haze is all around me, but ...
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