You pour the coffee black and hot
You keep the diner's same old plot
But when the clock hits half past four
You lock the heavy basement door
You guard the ink and heavy gold
The stories that the folders hold
You swap the apron for the key
The only place you feel so free
You slide the plates across the wood
You do the things a server should
But down below the humid air
You find the kind of truth that's rare
You guard the ink and heavy gold
The stories that the folders hold
You swap the apron for the key
The only place you feel so free
The yellow files are stacked in rows
Where only your own secret goes
You brush the graphite off the page
A bird escaping from its cage
You guard the ink and heavy gold
The stories that the folders hold
You swap the apron for the key
The only place you feel so free
The diner smells like fried brown grease
But here you find a sudden peace
You read the maps of old city lines
And ignore all the warning signs
You guard the ink and heavy gold
The stories that the folders hold
You swap the apron for the key
The only place you feel so free
Just a key in your hand.
Paper and plates.
(Ooh, aah)
