It's 5: 53 on Thanksgiving
Not one customer's walked through the door
But I'm still here, slinging drinks for a living
I've never played piano before
Not bad
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 beer
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 coming here
Who am I kidding?
Hey, you sunburned MILFs
give me a shout
Everyone's going home 'cause it's time to give thanks
Thanks for the chain stores,
and outlets and banks
Thanks for this town
three short hours from the beach
Where all of your dreams can stay
Just out of reach
Hey, West Covina
You're not listening so what's the use
Is my purpose in life
To slice limes with a knife
Or to serve that girl Deb a grey goose?
Hey Deb, be right with you
Hey, West Covina
Look what you're doing to me
Can't you see, West Covina
You're killing me, West Covina
Last call, West Covina
What'll it be?