A hushed smokey restlessness in a Galena Road tavern,
Deep and dark as a riverside cavern;
A long, thickly-varnished mahogany bar
On top of which sits a lucky jar.
The Cackle Sisters fly in from the Mirador
On fifty thousand watts;
While a draft resister, a magician, and an old stevedore
All talk and play slots.
"The miners in Bureau are buried alive."
"I wonder how long they will try to survive?"
"Life is so risky, such a lottery."
"Yes and this whiskey tastes god awful watery."
They ask for the score,
And leave through the door;
They leave through the door,
Walking straight off the floor.
Now the barkeep's alone
So he picks up the phone:
He looks at the jar and he grins at the fix,
Then into the phone he says "Trish how-is tricks?"