Flophouse Nightmares

We booted and brained in fine wild bar place
With high flootin dandies all around
There is a surden elctrical magic, surrounded by dishrag faces
I hope the moon doesn´t come home drunk this evening
When the shadows are coming at about dusk time
We are hungry to burn in the candle of flame
Fall in the temple of quivers and slaps
Share some laughs, tramps and take a hot butterbath
In the end our faces are reflected in a puddle
And our faces don´t seem to mind and the puddle doesn´t lie