Mat d. and the Profane Saints: Music

Ida turned eighteen with eighteen wheels turning
the last batch of coffee went cold Sunday morning
the clutch kept on slipping with Ida still drifting along
she trades in her blue jeans for tan polyester
six bucks an hour and heartache half-measured
by low-lifes and rabble- and men made of gravel gone wrong
it's all pre-pay or credit you'll live to regret it
we prosecute drive-offs so visit our restaurant
breakfast served anytime home of the last apple pie
red wine and motor oil sold by the barrel
all girly magazines half priced on special
Miss Ida Malloy's going home with a boy on the fly
she might sing out of tune with dear Johnny and June
or just hum a truckstop lullaby



barely a whisper but damned near a holler
a dead trail of lipstick appears on his collar
jack rabbit foreplay was never his forte it's true
Ida turned eighteen with eighteen still turning
a cold cup of coffee to fight back the morning
no shred of endearment no trace of a "Hey, I love you."
it's all pre-pay or credit you'll live to regret it
we prosecute drive-offs so visit our restaurant
breakfast served anytime home of the last apple pie
red wine and motor oil sold by the barrel
all girly magazines half priced on special
Miss Ida Malloy's going home with a boy on the fly
she might sing out of tune with dear Johnny and June
or just hum a truckstop lullaby
she might sing out of tune with dear Johnny and June
or just hum a truckstop lullaby