Casablanca

The man with the shadows, on his face sits in a chair
Calls the cobwebs lace
Behind his painted smile, the desert looms for miles in Casablanca

In the millhouse, another man spirals 'round
Now and then and after
He drinks from a pitcher of warm spit but it's his so it doesn't matter in Casablanca

The boys in the blue brass choir sing old tunes with their boots
And a heavy beat
And when the song is done, Jesus lies bleeding in the streets of Casablanca

The man with the shadows, on his face sits in a chair
Calls the cobwebs lace
Behind his painted smile, the desert looms for miles in Casablanca
In Casablanca, in Casablanca, in Casablanca ...