Noirsille Tune of the Week

A Tom Waits Classic of Audio Noir

Small Change 

(Got Rained On With His Own .38)

Tom Waits

Small change got rained on with his own thirty-eight

And nobody flinched down by the arcade

And the marquees weren't weeping, they went stark-raving mad

And the cabbies were the only ones that really had it made

And his cold trousers were twisted, and the sirens high and shrill

And crumpled in his fist was a five-dollar bill

And the naked mannequins with their Cheshire grins,

And the raconteurs and roustabouts said buddy, come on in, 'cause

'Cause the dreams ain't broken down here now, they're walking with a limp

Now that small change got rained on with his own thirty-eight

And nobody flinched down by the arcade

And the burglar alarm's been disconnected,

And the newsmen start to rattle

And the cops are telling jokes about some whorehouse in Seattle

And the fire hydrants plead the fifth amendment

And the furniture is bargains galore

But the blood is by the jukebox on an old linoleum floor

And what a hot rain on forty-second street

And now the umbrellas ain't got a chance

And the newsboy's a lunatic with stains on his pants, 'cause

'Cause small change got rained on with his own thirty-eight

And no one's gone over to close his eyes

And there's a racing form in his pocket,

Circled blue boots in the third

And the cashier at the clothing store didn't say a word

As the siren tears the night in half, and someone lost his wallet

Well, a surveillance of assailance, it that's what you want to call it

And the whores hike up their skirts and fish for drug-store prophylactics

With their mouths cut just like razor blades and their eyes are like stilettos

And her radiator's steaming and her teeth are in a wreck, and nah,

She won't let you kiss her, but what the hell do you expect?

And the gypsies are tragic and if you want to buy perfume,

Well, they'll bark you down like carneys, sell you christmas cards in June, but

But small change got rained on with his own thirty-eight

And his headstone's a gumball machine,

No more chewing gum or baseball cards or overcoats or dreams

Someone's hosing down the sidewalk, and he's only in his teens, 'cause

'Cause small change got rained on with his own thirty-eight

And a fistful of dollars can't change that,

And someone copped his watch fob, and someone got his ring

And the newsboy got his porkpie Stetson hat

And the tuberculosis old men at the nelson wheeze and cough

And someone will head south until this whole thing cools off, 'cause

'Cause small change got rained on with his own thirty-eight, yeah,

Small change got rained on with his own thirty-eight