Harry had the late night highway blues —
his clutch was slippin’
& his engine was runnin’ rough.
Man, thought Harry,
seems you either got too much
or you never got enough.
Well, Harry had a bottle
in the glove compartment,
& a map on the seat beside,
same old, same old, late night drivin’ blues.

You know how it goes—
some jerk won’t dim his brights,
semi got a heavy load – scale closed,
baby shoes hangin’ from the rear view,
rubber dice & a plastic rose.

He was headin’ down the highway
with the windshield wipers slappin’ at the rain,
but there just weren’t nothin’
could wipe out all those memories
buzzin’ round poor Harry’s brain —
what he had & what he lost,
what he wanted & what it cost,
thinkin’ bout those lazy days
just hangin’ ‘round his ol’ home town
makin’ time with his baby –
lyin’ in the long grass, out by the over-pass,
listenin’ to the cars go by —
full of people goin’ somewhere
& no-one askin’ why —
warm summer days
& sharp autumn wind
nothin’ to surprise him –
no way out & no way in.

Oh Lord, love is full of promise, diamonds rubies & gold
but all it does right now for Harry is make that poor man feel old.

So Harry stuck a tape in the deck
& lit another cigarette,
just let that smoky music
cut a groove inside his head.
And the highway uncurled
like a wet black snake
full of broken glass & heart-break —
nothin’ left to do
but listen to his own wet tires sing
& tell himself he didn’t really see no angel
in the dark night fold her silver wings —
look once, look twice —
funny thing,
he could’ve sworn
there was a pale circle round her finger
where she used to wear a wedding ring.
Ahh Hell, thought Harry, it’s easy to remember,
it’s so much harder to forget,
& why should I worry
‘bout some ol’ angel out there gettin’ wet . . .

‘Cause you know Harry was on the road.
He was on the Blue High-Way
& all he could really do
was pass the time
watchin’ on the yellow line,
stiff neck, tape deck, master charge,
empty bottle & no cigarettes.
Harry was goin’ somewhere
but he sure wasn’t there yet.
Hot Shower, 21 inch TV,
Heated Pool, No Vacancy
Check your brakes!
Check your fuel!
Slippery when wet.
You bet!
Slow down, steep grade ahead!
Take your choice,
single or a double bed.
Fun for all the family!
Loads of privacy!
Kids eat free!
Sure thing!

So it was that after a while,
a little while or a long while,
Harry just eased on off at Exit 33
to find himself on the main street
of a little off-season town,
nobody around, just a crazy yellow dog
standin’ in the middle of the road gettin’ wet.
There was a false-front clap-board diner
with a blurry blue neon sign said Gypsy’s Cafe . . .
little voice in his head said this must be it –
the door banged shut
& Harry stopped to let his eyes adjust,
then just stood there,
kind of wobblin’ the way you do
when you’ve been on the road too long.

The joint looked like
somebody’s else’s good dream
that got spoiled —
buzz of fluorescent light,
smell of stale coffee & rancid oil,
sign over the counter said:
“Our credit manager is Helen Waite,
if you want credit go to Helen Waite.”
Well Harry figured he’d already bin there
& now he was here,
so he took a seat at the counter
& waited to see who would appear.
Somethin’ broke in the kitchen,
somebody cursed,
then the girl come through the plastic bead curtain
just like it was rehearsed, saw Harry — said “coffee”
with a question attached – naturally— what else?
Although she was not old,
she had a soft, tired look upon her face,
that told Harry she’d already let
her best opportunities go to waste.

Meet you halfway there, Harry thought,
let’s talk. Sure, she said &
flashed a lot of cheap glass rings,
told Harry that she was no angel
but her people were ancient Gypsy Kings.
Well Harry didn’t mind, he figured
everybody’s got to come from somewhere,
& if she didn’t know him from Adam,
he didn’t know her from Eve,
& who the hell was he to say
what a person should believe.
Hell, maybe she was a gypsy,
maybe she was a Queen,
maybe she was a Princess
from someplace he’d never been.
(Never would go either.)

So Harry drank his coffee –
it wasn’t half bad,
& he started to tell his story:
a little bit of hit & lot of miss –
you know how it is –
but the girl, she just looked Harry in the eye
then leaned her elbows on the counter
& said: This ain’t a war & it ain’t a test.
You told me just a little bit
now let me guess the rest.
You think all you need’s a bottle,
& maybe some cigarettes,
you think all you need’s a tune-up
& a place to give your head a rest . . .
sure Honey, I know,
you got a wore out heart,
& if you had a soul it’d be a mess,
you’re always lookin’ for more
but all you ever find is less.
Sure Honey, I know,
you may think you’ve gone to hell & back
but all you’ve really done
is gotten off the beaten track . . .
Sure honey, I know –
you’ve heard it all before,
turn around twice,
you’ll be out the door.

Thing is honey, she said,
I can sell you some cigarettes,
I can sell you a couple drinks,
I can pass the time with you
& you can tell me what you think,
but there ain’t no gas at the gas station,
the mechanic, he’s on extended vacation
& the psychic at the junction
ain’t gonna find your relatives or friends!
So take my advice. Don’t think twice!
The Paradise Hotel’s got just the thing
for dead-beat strangers
& angels with broken wings.
‘Cause Happiness
may be what you’re lookin’ for
all the time, every time,
but a broken heart & empty arms
is mostly what you’re gonna find –
take a left at the lights & a right by the tracks,
it’s down by the lake, you can’t miss it!
Hell, everybody else seems to be able to find it, 
why should you be different?

Well, Harry left & she was right,
big blue neon lights spelled out P*A*R*A*D*I*S*E
against the sky, all wet & black,
& there was a pink neon angel perched on the hood
of a sky-blue flying Cadillac.
And right then a voice up in Harry’s head said
one step forward, two steps back
3 times lucky, Harry my boy,
but don’t lose track.

Well Harry took one look over his shoulder,
breathed in long & deep
then opened up the door . . .
the roar of sound
that came out of there
was like a mile-high tidal wave
& the wave rolled right over Harry
& it smelled like alcohol & stale sweat
& it smelled like a whole life-time
of half-decayed memories
in a dumpster out back of a crappy
Chinese restaurant in a part of town
you don’t want to know about.
Man, it was loud & lunatic in there,
crazy babble of voices, poisonous smoke
up to the rafters & wave after wave
of hysterical laughter . . .

When suddenly, out of the blue,
the girl from the Gypsy Café took him by the arm
& allowed how she was glad that he’d finally arrived
saying now take your time Harry –
get yourself acclimatized –
sit right down & give yourself a rest,
while I introduce you to our other special guests:
the skinny chick with acne,
she can’t handle any sun,
she’s known as “Precious Little” to her friends
&  her T-shirt reads Free White & 21,
& that’s the connoisseur of clichés
over in the corner with the clean cut look,
the oriental gentleman is known as Mr. We,
that’s Mable on the table with the artificial fruit,
Jacky-Boy delivers, he’s got a local route.
Man, these people oughta be in movies
or at least the local news,
it’s Saturday night in Paradise
& the place is full of broken angels
got the blues.

And everybody was talkin’,
& everybody had bad news,
& everybody was tellin’ Harry
how everybody had pay their dues.
Someone was talkin’ income
& someone was talkin’ words,
someone was holding forth
& someone else was fifth,
someone was talkin’ horses,
then it was natural resources –
“trees” said one, “people” said another,
“mining” was mentioned
but no one had the numbers.
Hell, someone said,
we’re all in the same boat –
Harry thought it was the guy
in the alligator coat –
but the general inclination
was to refrain from making waves –
some things never change —
tip of the hat to the connoisseur of clichés . . .

Meanwhile, over in the corner
the big screen TV
was hummin’ like a hive of bees –
Talk-Show preacher
had the front row on its knees
& he was layin’ on the jive hand —
glib tongue rub & soothe –
the old babes had tears
runnin’ down through their rouge,
fake pearls, blue hair,
Hollywood Memories,
who cares . . .
& then, oh my,
Harry could not believe his eyes –
It was those singing sisters . . .
you know the ones,
sure honey you know –
you remember them . . .
Harry sure could; they were . . .
they were really something,
wafting down that star-light stair-case
on a wave of lush strings,
blonde hair & sparkling diamond rings,
each one wearing a pure white wedding dress
that just suggested the soft swell of their innocent breasts . . .
1954, it don’t rain but it pours . . .
Sure, honey, I know . . .
Shut up! You don’t understand . . .
Who couldn’t help but fall in love . . .
Sure, I know there were 4 of them
so what! That was the show!
And you know, it’s funny
but Harry’s whole world
seemed to lead up to this moment,
this moment made out of tinsel
& winking little lights
at the very centre of Paradise
& just when everything should have come clear –
the how & the why of things –
right then . . . that big ol’ TV just up & died.

And suddenly there was a red dog
snappin’ round Harry’s brain
& his heart felt like it was locked up
in the baggage car on a runaway train.
And when his pride lay like a thief’s lonely knife
against the long black thigh of night,
the one they called Jacky-Boy
climbed up on the table & waved his silver cane
& he raved on & on ‘bout duplicity & evil
& his eyes were full of neon rain,
& then he looked right down at Harry
& he said the time has come
it’s up to you & me to make that midnight run,
so gather up your scruples & yer scalpel,
your vanity bag & your pack of lies,
‘cause we got a date with the shakers & the movers
& the worried blues is ‘bout to tearin’ up the sky.
And Harry looked around & saw that the shit goin’ down
was not to be believed – through a hole in the yellow smoke
the stripper was gettin’ down to nothin’ but her expertise.

Man, these people oughta be in movies
or at least the local news,
it’s Saturday night in Paradise
& all the broken angels got the blues.

And before Harry knew what hit him,
he was back out in the rain,
big blue neon P*A*R*A*D*I*S*E
shinin’ against the depthless black
& there was somethin’ wild out there
somethin’ that didn’t leave no track,
& then Harry had to look again,
‘cause it seemed to him
the angel ridin’ on that Cadillac
waved her neon arm
& she wore the face of a Gypsy Queen
& her eyes were soft & warm.
And then the highway opened up
just like an amber-coloured flame
& the highway angels sang their song
& played their little games,
& Paradise is where you gotta go
when your soul is full of neon rain,
& Paradise is where we’d all be now,
if we could stand the pain.

And Harry, he’s just messin’ with all those memories:
what he had & what he lost
what he wanted & what it cost,
all them lazy days just hangin’ round
his ol’ home town,
makin’ time with his baby,
lyin’ in the long grass, over by the overpass,
listenin’ to the cars go by,
full of people goin’ somewhere
& no-one askin’ why –
warm summer days & sharp autumn wind –
nothin’ to surprise him, no way out,
& no way in.

Ahh love is full of promise,
diamonds, rubies, silver & gold,
but all it does right now for Harry
is make him feel old.
And Paradise is where you gotta go
when your soul is full of neon rain
& Paradise is where we’d all  be now
if we could stand the pain.

Same old, same old late night highway blues,
some jerk won’t dim his brights,
semi got a heavy load – scale closed.
Baby shoes hangin’ from the rear view,
rubber dice & a plastic rose.

Just headin’ down the highway
starin’ out at the rain
& there just weren’t nothin’
could wipe out all those memories
buzzin’ round poor Harry’s brain.