Grease Trap Gospel

[Verse 1]
The flat-top breathes a cloud of onion-steam at three-seventeen, Tuesday.
We see the roots of bad decisions bloom under fluorescent scenery.
A couple in the corner booth, a garden of unwatered rage,
her cracked phone screen reflects the silence turning on the page.
He’s twisting up a paper napkin, pulling it to shreds,
a thousand tiny arguments left better off unsaid.
We just refill the coffee, watch the sugar packets bleed,
planting ourselves behind this counter, growing like a weed.

[Chorus]
(Different vocalist, weary and raw)
We wipe the rings and stack the plates
We watch the early turn to late
We mop the floors and lock the gates
on gospels that ain't ours to save

[Verse 2]
Last week a dude came in, all jacket, knuckles raw and swelled.
He sat right where you’re sitting, had a story you could smell.
Smell of burnt wires and betrayal, same as my old man’s garage,
a camouflage of confidence, a poorly built facade.
He fumbled for his car keys, a jangle on the formica top,
said, "She changed the deadbolt on me, man. You tell me when to stop."
We just poured another cup, let the quiet percolate,
another ghost who lost the key to his own real estate.

[Chorus]
(Different vocalist, weary and raw)
We wipe the rings and stack the plates
We watch the early turn to late
We mop the floors and lock the gates
on gospels that ain't ours to save

[Bridge]
(Beat cuts out. Locus Hale's vocal is completely dry, close-mic'd, intimate)
Everybody thinks they're the main character.
We just serve the coffee while the credits roll.

[Outro]
Yeah. We just serve the coffee.
While the credits roll.