Quarters

The tavern where you worked
Was cold and dark as a cavern
You kept quarters in your shirt
But I never could just have them

You always made me sweep
Around every fly and floozie
Under booths and bums asleep
Waking up they’d ask you who’s he?

Behind a glass without a glance
My daughter’s boy, you would say
While I stood there in a trance
Listening to the jukebox play