What’ll It Be*

It's 5:53 on Thanksgiving
Not one customer's walked through the door
But I'm still here, slingin' drinks for a living
I've never played piano before

I know this town like the back of my hand
But I'm not such a fan of the back of my hand
Cause if you look real close
At those little hairs and veins You're like
"Hands are sort of gross"
It's hard to explain
The point is:

Hey, West Covina
Why won't you let me break free?
Am I doomed to stay here
Pouring my high school friends' beers
For the rest of eternity?

Hey, West Covina
You know just where to find me
I'll never go far, so pull up to the bar
Hey, West Covina
What'll it be?

It's 5:55, I'm still singing
The big Turkey Day game's letting out
But no one's comin' here
Who am I kiddin'?
Hey, you sunburned MILFs
Give me a shout

Everyone's going home
'Cause it's time to give thanks
Thanks for the chain stores and outlets and banks
Thanks for this town three short hours from the beach
Where all of your dreams can stay just out of reach

Dun-dun bom-bom!
Gun-ga bom-dom!

Hey, West Covina
You're not listenin', so what's the use?
Is my purpose in life to slice limes with a knife?
Or to serve Deb a vodka and cranberry juice?

Hey, West Covina
Look what you're doing to me
Can't you see, West Covina
You're killing me, West Covina
Last call, West Covina
What'll it be?