It’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The onions are fryin’, the neon is bright
And the jukebox is startin’ to play.
And the sign on the wall says, IN GOD WE TRUST,
ALL OTHERS HAVE TO PAY.
And it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The short-order cook with the MOMMA tattoo,
He’s turnin’ them hamburgers slow,
Eggs over easy, whole wheat down.
“D’ y’all want that coffee to go?”
He never once dreamed as a rodeo star
That he’d wind up here today
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s a tall, skinny girl in the very back booth
Wearin’ jeans and a secondhand fur.
She’s been to the doctor, then called up a man
And now wonders just where she can turn.
She stares at her coffee, then looks toward the ceiling,
And, Lord, it’s a strange place to pray
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s a guy in a tux and he stands in the corner,
Feedin’ the jukebox his dimes.
He just had a woman and thought that he’d bought her
But found he’d just rented some time.
And he just couldn’t sleep, so he come back to see
If anyone else wants to play
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s an old dollar bill in a frame on the wall,
The first one that Rose ever made.
It was once worth a dollar a long time ago,
But, like Rose, it’s beginnin’ to fade.
She’s back of the register, dreamin’ of someone,
And how things’d be if he’d stayed,
But it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The stoop-shouldered man and his frizzy-haired woman,
It’s strange how their eyes never meet.
He’s playin’ the pinball, she’s fixin’ the blanket
Of the baby asleep on the seat.
But he’s out of work and she’s puttin’ on weight
And they never had too much to say,
And it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The waitress Darlene, she sits at the counter,
Paintin’ her fingernails blue,
And the short-order cook, he yells, “Move it or lose it
And pick up an order of stew.”
But someday a rich, handsome man will walk in
And carry her far, far away
From two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
Eddie the cop, he sits at the counter,
Tryin’ to look dapper and cool,
His beer-belly gut overlappin’ his belt
And his blue shiny ass overlappin’ the stool.
He gulps down a handful of doughnuts, and belches,
And never once offers to pay
And no one says nothin’ at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s the weight lifter there in his black skintight T-shirt,
He’s pickin’ his teeth with the check.
He coughs now and then until somebody looks,
Then he casually flexes his pecs.
He smiles at the curly-haired, apple-cheeked sailor
And the sailor, he quick turns away.
We take our best shot here at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The hollow-eyed trucker, in a well-practiced gesture,
He swallows another white pill.
If he drove as fast as his insides are speedin’,
He’d leave all the world standin’ still.
And if he can make 300 miles by eleven,
They won’t take his wheels away,
But it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
Ol’ Slim, the dishwasher’s takin’ his break
In the alley, away from the light.
He smuggles the ham to his buddy who’s waitin’
And his buddy fades into the night.
He looks ‘cross the alley to the blonde hooker’s window,
But the damn bitch, she’s pulled down the shade,
Another dream shattered at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
Old man McKenzie, he’s thumpin’ his Bible,
Rantin’ ’bout hell’s burnin’ fires.
“You’re all eatin’ your chicken and drinkin’ your wine,
Indulgin’ your carnal desires.”
He kicks at the jukebox, then pinches Darlene.
She screams and damn near drops her tray,
Rejectin’ salvation at two in the mornin’
Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The junkie, he’s standin’ outside of the glass,
Shakin’ so hard he can’t stand.
There’s a Saturday-night special deep in his pocket
And the pearl handle sweats in his hand.
But there’s too much light and too damn many people
And relief is still twelve bucks away
And he won’t find the answer at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The tall rangy shortstop of the semipro team
Sticks a wad of tobac in his jaw.
He went two for four in the win over Danville
And didn’t he get standin’ applause?
But he’s 32 and still clings to the dream
That he’ll play for the White Sox someday,
And he’ll sign an autograph if you just ask him,
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The shaggy-haired hippie, he’s finished his meal
And he’s countin’ the change in his jeans.
Burger and coffee are 85 cents
And he’s only got 23.
He smiles at Rose and she winks back at him,
But Lord, that’s a high price to pay
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The wino, he’s pushin’ the broom and he’s thinkin’,
Tomorrow his welfare comes in.
And Rosalie hands him a slug for the jukebox
‘N’ says, “Play number seven again.”
‘Cause she loves those sad songs, those he-done-her-bad songs
To while the long hours away
And mem’ries hang heavy at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s crazy ol’ crazy Annie, she’s 74,
Wearin’ short skirts and white-vinyl boots.
She’s luggin’ three shoppin’ bags stuffed full of trash,
Lookin’ for leftover food.
They say that somewhere in her garbage-filled house
There’s a million bucks hidden away,
But she just grabbed your half-eaten egg-salad sandwich
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The kitchen-supply salesman, he’s tellin’ Rosie
Her ol’ steel deep fryer is shot
And everyone laughs as she mimics Mae West
‘N’ says, “Big boy, my fryer is still plenty hot.”
Then the salesman says, “Rosie, that’s pretty damn good,
But ain’t you lots older than Mae?”
A laugh a damn minute, at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s a homecomin’ party for Billy Costanza,
Just back from the Vietnam hills.
Hey, is it true ’bout the slant of them women?
And how many gooks did you kill?
He raises his glass with a stainless-steel hand.
Ain’t science doin’ wonders these days?
And it’s hail to the hero at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The prima ballerina of Eau Claire, Wisconsin,
She’s askin’ if there’s any work.
The rope round her suitcase is comin’ apart
And her feet and her pride sure do hurt.
And the cook’s sayin’, “Yeah,” and Darlene’s sayin’, “No,”
And Rosie says, “Sit down and wait,”
Nothin’ comes easy at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s an old wooden sign hidden under the counter,
It’s been there for 17 years.
It says, ‘JIM AND ROSALIE’S HOME COUNTRY COOKIN’
And the paint’s dried and peeled like her tears.
And Rosalie’s plannin’ on heavin’ it out
In the alley some one of these days,
But it ain’t hurtin’ nothin’ this Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
Old Louie, he’s limpin’ from table to table,
Askin’, “Hey, what can you use?
I got wrist watches, diamond rings, fur coats and stag films,
No reasonable offer refused.
I got two kids in college, a wife in the hospital,
Also one foot in the grave.
How ’bout a transistor or a watch for your sister?”
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The guy in the tux’s cuttin’ into his steak,
Smilin’ like Cary Grant would.
And Darlene keeps runnin’ and fillin’ his cup.
He looks like he tips pretty good.
He pockets the three-dollar bills of his change
And just leaves the 14 cents lay.
And Cary Grant’s now just another cheap bastard
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s a dude in the john and he’s pukin’ his guts out,
Swearin’ he won’t drink again,
And she’s just a tramp, and life’s just a hustle
And that bastard was never a friend.
He rinses his mouth out and wets down his hair
And heads for the bar ‘cross the way.
A promise don’t last long at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s an ex-con just fresh from a 14-year stretch
And he’s rapidly losin’ his poise.
There’s pork chops and lamb chops and chili to choose from
And he ain’t used to makin’ a choice.
And there’s dogs and there’s kids and that damn waitress’ tits
Are just ’bout to blow him away,
He’s tremblin’ and sweatin’, enjoyin’ his freedom
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s a bus driver cussin’ his ol’ burned-out Greyhound,
Workin’ on his second beer.
He’s got a daughter – lives here in this town,
But hell, it’s been almost ten years,
And she’s probably married, with kids of her own,
And then, what the hell would he say?
“Come down meet your daddy at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café?”
Now old crazy Annie, she’s readin’ the palm
Of the tall, skinny girl in the fur.
There’s a man and a home and three beautiful children
In her future just waitin’ for her.
The girl starts to laugh – now she’s startin’ to scream
And they might have to haul her away
From two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s Rosalie’s kid, and he’s just up from college –
He’s brought his girlfriend along.
She shakes hands with Rosie and sniffs at the grease
And says she’s not hungry at all.
Then Rose feels ashamed that her apron ain’t clean
And what would the girl’s parents say
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café?
Milton, the cabdriver’s standin’ there, squirmin’,
Tellin’ his woes to the con.
His hemorrhoids are burnin’ and his bladder is bustin’
And somebody’s usin’ the john.
And the streets are all bare and if he found a fare,
He’d prob’ly get mugged on the way.
And it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The kid with the acne, he crumples the program
He got at the Tri-Hi-Y dance.
He’s usin’ Colgate and Arrid and Brut
And he still can’t get laid worth a damn.
So maybe tomorrow he’ll buy some Lavoris
And the pussy will all come his way.
Settin’ and dreamin’ at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The black-jacket biker, he looks out the window,
Watchin’ his Harley outside.
Freeways and highways and 20-lane skyways,
Not many dirt roads left to ride.
And this mornin’ he looked in the mirror and noticed
His hair was takin’ some gray,
And it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s a young dusty cowboy, he’s workin’ the fair,
Cursin’ the bitch he just rode.
And the short-order cook, he hears the kid braggin’
And sees himself ages ago.
He could tell the punk how he rode in the big ones,
But hell, let them sleepin’ dogs lay,
The young ones, they ride, and the old ones fry onions
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The bald-headed writer of unsavory songs,
He’s brushin’ the crumbs from his beard.
He’s filled up his notebook with other folks’ sorrow
And his belly with other folks’ beer.
Now he’s rhymin’ a tune ’bout this dingy ol’ diner,
Just one more the DJs won’t play,
But life is a song and ain’t we all singin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The blonde-haired pretender, she’s fixin’ her eyelash,
And the mirror, it laughs in her hand.
She’ll glance round the room with the smile of a woman,
Then she’ll curse in the voice of a man.
From young football hero to old midnight queen,
He’s sure come a long lonesome way
To two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s a sad-eyed inspector from the ‘Partment of Health
Examinin’ the kitchen too close.
He’s writin’ citations and quotin’ vi’lations
And shakin’ his head as he goes.
Then Rosie walks back there and closes the door
And when they come out, it’s OK.
And he’s smilin’ and tearin’ up all the citations
On Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
There’s a big zigzag crack in the front plate-glass window,
Where last night the cowboy went through.
Somebody said he said somethin’ to someone
‘Bout a lady that somebody knew.
And somebody reached for a bottle of ketchup
And blood spattered every which way
To blend with the grease stains that cover the walls here
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
Eddie, the cop, he fingers his holster
And stares at the hippie’s long hair.
He’s probably carryin’ five pounds of dope,
But he’s too damn tired to care.
Twelve years on the force and eight commendations
And he just might make sergeant someday.
So fuck the whole city and all the damn weirdos
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The jogger, he’s finished his long midnight mile
And he stops for a quench of his thirst.
He’s heavy of breath, and he’s smellin’ of sweat,
And he sure could of showered up first.
And ol’ crazy Annie yells, “Where are you runnin’?
Don’t you know you just can’t escape?
We’re all damned forever to Saturday nights here
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.”
The toothiess ol’ wino, he starts in to shoutin’,
“You don’t know how lucky you are.
That damned VA hospital pretty near killed me.
Hey, who wants to look at my scar?”
He stares round the room, and then picks up the old broom
And starts sweepin’ the weekend away
At two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The TV set’s flickerin’ up there on the shelf
And nobody’s watchin’ but Slim.
James Cagney is climbin’ the ladder of crime,
That woman ain’t no good for him.
Hey, did you see him push that grapefruit in her face?
Hell, they really could act in them days.
But who’s got a grapefruit at two in the mornin’
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café?
The short-order cook, he just stares out the window,
‘Waitin’ the breakin’ of dawn.
He’ll pick up his pay, and then he’ll tell ol’ Rosie
He’s gonna be travelin’ on.
And she’ll say it’s short notice and, well, what the hell,
He might give her just one more day.
‘Cause it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
The baby-faced sailor, he leans on the phone
And dials the number again,
While the guy in the tux tells the girl in the jeans
‘Bout the wonderful places he’s been.
Then the wino, he puts down his broom and starts shoutin’
‘Bout the fortunes that he threw away.
And the black-jacket biker, he gets on his Harley,
‘Cause Monday’s a nine-to-five day.
And the blonde-haired pretender, she’s askin’ the con
If he thinks she should take off some weight.
And the songwriter’s promisin’ Miss Ballerina
That he’s gonna write her a play.
And the sweet college girl’s askin’ Rosalie’s kid
If he knows where to score some cocaine.
And the speedin’ truck driver tells the sleepy cabdriver
They ought to trade jobs for a day.
And Eddie the cop keeps his eye on the hippie,
While the junkie just shuffles away.
And ol’ crazy Annie, she’s askin’ ’em all,
Have you called your momma today?
And the weight lifter’s tellin’ the baby-faced sailor
That he’s got a beautiful face.
And the short-order cook tells the rodeo cowboy
He’ll outride his ass any day.
And Eddie the cop, he’s lookin’ round, yellin’,
Hey, who owns the blue Chevrolet?
And the bus driver’s tellin’ the young ballerina
That she can ride free to LA.
And Rosalie’s askin’ the shaggy-haired hippie
If he’s got a warm place to stay.
And the short-order cook takes a five from the till
While Rosalie’s lookin’ away.
And the onions are fryin’, the neon is bright
And the jukebox continues to play.
And it’s two in the mornin’ on Saturday night
At Rosalie’s Good Eats Café.
