Let the waitress put the chairs up,
let the glasses that she broke form a picture of our leader
with a halo made of smoke.
Let the Golden Oldies station crackle and come through with a final benediction
we'll hum along to, before we say goodnight.
Let our talk about the ballgame and the weather show we care,
like a sound we didn't notice until it stopped
and left us there with the traffic and our heartbeats beating in straight time.
Let our hatred and affection march in the same line,
before we say goodnight.
Oh, protect our secret handshake.
Once more, with feeling,
let the toast to absent members push through the ceiling,
before we say goodnight.