Some days the sun rises with a conviction I don't have.
A soothing, luminous, crimson, orange haze lights up warm and smiling
until it sets your dinner table with a lipstick sunset.
Today was not going to be one of those days.
The phone rang before that lumination had a chance
and it wasn't love on the other end.
Coppers again. Diggin' for information like malnourished Soweto miners
digging for diamonds.
They call me because I'm a private eye.
I see things. I hear things. I know things. But not everything.
The boys in blue couldn't find clues if they came in registered mail.
A dog barked it's persistent protest outside and that didn't
sound like love either.
Sirens in the distance made me feel safe and annoyed.
Yes, a morning medley of madness dancing the meringue in my head.
Wasn't the first time. Won't be the last.
Sit up, feet on the floor, deep breath. It's a start.
The little white balls of sleep I dug out of the corners of my eyes
could have been teed up at the golf course.
Black coffee. Hot shower. Hat on. Out the door.
That's just the way it is some days in The City.
I've had worse.
But I have hope.
I always have hope.
Hope dries me off, pours my coffee, and if I'm lucky,
buys me a drink in a place where you don't have to pay
for pleasant conversation with a dame who wears a dress
that has no business being on at all.
I never used to think it was impossible
But it's been so long I think I forgot:
guy meets girl, they fall for each other like waterfalls,
tropical Red-Headed Parrots squawk overhead,
they all live happily ever after.
The kind of stuff Philip Marlow or any other private dick
or gum shoe wannabe could only imagine on the pages
of pulp fiction paperbacks hanging hopefully on lonely racks
in supermarkets from Aptos to Twain Harte.
But in this city, a city where the fog slips quietly in on little cat feet
and lays down purring warmly between your summer sheets,
anything is possible.
The impossible is always possible in a city so great,
hearts have been left here, immortalized in song
and lore of the Barbary Coast.
So what's a man to do with a heart as big as Angel Island,
a desire to please as big as Coit Tower, and a grace
as sweet as a cathedral on Nob Hill?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
and in the fire I'm gettin started with you.
Ahhwonderful you!
You're a gal who don't miss opportunity
but if it knocks too loud, too early, or with hesitation
you might stick your high heel right through
any idea it had about getting cozy.
You're a gal who knows right from wrong but doesn't mind
forgetting now and again just for fun.
A dame who can get dirty and come clean
without batting her eyelashes hard enough
to wake up Las Vegas.
A gal who doesn't mind mud on her Sunday hike,
and dirt beneath her nails on occasion,
and doesn't mind fresh water pearls holding up her
little indian red dress.
I don't sit around with my feet up, remote in hand
waiting for life to tap me in the shoulder with some gat
that isn't my caliber.
I pounce. I fall madly in love. I hitch trains.
Even though I've got game in the kitchen
and can cook up a storm even when the skies are clear,
Coltrane and Cleopatra bring me breakfast in bed.
Miles, Monk, and Marley take me to dinner on the moon
Even when it's full.
A soothing, luminous, crimson, orange haze lights up warm and smiling
until it sets your dinner table with a lipstick sunset.
Today was not going to be one of those days.
The phone rang before that lumination had a chance
and it wasn't love on the other end.
Coppers again. Diggin' for information like malnourished Soweto miners
digging for diamonds.
They call me because I'm a private eye.
I see things. I hear things. I know things. But not everything.
The boys in blue couldn't find clues if they came in registered mail.
A dog barked it's persistent protest outside and that didn't
sound like love either.
Sirens in the distance made me feel safe and annoyed.
Yes, a morning medley of madness dancing the meringue in my head.
Wasn't the first time. Won't be the last.
Sit up, feet on the floor, deep breath. It's a start.
The little white balls of sleep I dug out of the corners of my eyes
could have been teed up at the golf course.
Black coffee. Hot shower. Hat on. Out the door.
That's just the way it is some days in The City.
I've had worse.
But I have hope.
I always have hope.
Hope dries me off, pours my coffee, and if I'm lucky,
buys me a drink in a place where you don't have to pay
for pleasant conversation with a dame who wears a dress
that has no business being on at all.
I never used to think it was impossible
But it's been so long I think I forgot:
guy meets girl, they fall for each other like waterfalls,
tropical Red-Headed Parrots squawk overhead,
they all live happily ever after.
The kind of stuff Philip Marlow or any other private dick
or gum shoe wannabe could only imagine on the pages
of pulp fiction paperbacks hanging hopefully on lonely racks
in supermarkets from Aptos to Twain Harte.
But in this city, a city where the fog slips quietly in on little cat feet
and lays down purring warmly between your summer sheets,
anything is possible.
The impossible is always possible in a city so great,
hearts have been left here, immortalized in song
and lore of the Barbary Coast.
So what's a man to do with a heart as big as Angel Island,
a desire to please as big as Coit Tower, and a grace
as sweet as a cathedral on Nob Hill?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
and in the fire I'm gettin started with you.
Ahhwonderful you!
You're a gal who don't miss opportunity
but if it knocks too loud, too early, or with hesitation
you might stick your high heel right through
any idea it had about getting cozy.
You're a gal who knows right from wrong but doesn't mind
forgetting now and again just for fun.
A dame who can get dirty and come clean
without batting her eyelashes hard enough
to wake up Las Vegas.
A gal who doesn't mind mud on her Sunday hike,
and dirt beneath her nails on occasion,
and doesn't mind fresh water pearls holding up her
little indian red dress.
I don't sit around with my feet up, remote in hand
waiting for life to tap me in the shoulder with some gat
that isn't my caliber.
I pounce. I fall madly in love. I hitch trains.
Even though I've got game in the kitchen
and can cook up a storm even when the skies are clear,
Coltrane and Cleopatra bring me breakfast in bed.
Miles, Monk, and Marley take me to dinner on the moon
Even when it's full.