In an old timey wooden floor bar,
a fan in the ceiling, piano in the back room,
old timey wooden floor bar,
I remembered and was new again,
the way the floor must have looked
when the brass on the fan still shined
before the ivory lost its voice.

I was good in those frosted days.
I melted them in my hands
and drank them
and set them down in a puddle on the bar
and they were gone
the way the floor went underfoot,
the fan went overhead,
the piano went
at the hands of a thousand players.

In a wooden floor bar where days are shined
and stacked like empty glasses,
I was marked and gritty and silent
like everything around me.
So it should be
in an old timey place.