Father’s by the Door

Father's by the door. No more jukebox hands or swollen feet
No more fun. The house is drained
I put on my bravest shirt and get some blueing for these eyes
I know this face is money, but the skinny boys won't buy
Father's by the door. Father's by the door
Forget that saxophone in the subway; that glove, slipped off, which smelled
Stop those river of hips: they'll be greeted with a sneer, and fasten your brassiere
Before your breasts become too cold
The day reclines and falls asleep, 'cause father's by the door
Father's by the door. Father's by the door