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What’ll It Be*
par
Rachel Bloom
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It's 5:53 on Thanksgiving Not one customer's walked through the door But I'm still here, slingin' drinks for a living I've never played piano before I know this town like the back of my hand But I'm not such a fan of the back of my hand Cause if you look real close At those little hairs and veins You're like "Hands are sort of gross" It's hard to explain The point is: Hey, West Covina Why won't you let me break free? Am I doomed to stay here Pouring my high school friends' beers For the rest of eternity? Hey, West Covina You know just where to find me I'll never go far, so pull up to the bar Hey, West Covina What'll it be? It's 5:55, I'm still singing The big Turkey Day game's letting out But no one's comin' here Who am I kiddin'? Hey, you sunburned MILFs Give me a shout
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