I travel where you worked. Was cold and dark as a cavern. You kept quarters in your shirt. But I never could just have them. You always made me sweep around every flying floozy. Under booths and bums asleep. Waking up they'd ask you "Who's he? ". Behind a glass without a glance. "My daughter's boy " you would say. Well I stood there in a trance. Listening to the jukebox play