In a red brick building down town
Through the saloon doors that swings like old western
The floors that squeak with each step yell
The aged worn faded luster of furniture to post
The half darkened window to keep in
What as without privilege, outsiders to know
A high chair empty awaits my rest
A man stands with towel, a repeat clean of glass jugs
Words mean little if looks says all that needs be said
Words here are to be nodded, winked and acknowledged
A clean glass freshly worked on by the towel's strain
A sound of gentle knock on the nossel before pour
A slide on the table, motion knows just when to stop
Adjustment of composure to symbolize appreciation
This here is to quench my thirst with lovers wine
This is the lovers inn, a quite share in lovers heart
Behind, the western saloon doors do open with shrill
A step on squeaking floor familiar, she approaches; hey love
