Saturday Night - Choke Up

The last great defender of the heart of Saturday night

Burned out madly in the back seat of a black Cadillac

How the thunder crashed

Our fathers' leather jackets

A bit too big on our shoulders

Slowly unstitch in the closet

A dusty crypt of characters

We’ve retired, starved and silenced

Dead poets and pissed off kids

Haunt the highways, plaintive clichés

Longing for glory days that never came