Six Hours Ahead Of The Sun

One more night in a transatlantic city

And the clocks all run on someone else's time

And the streets run so close to the houses,

But none of them run into mine.

And the people are all in a hurry

And the whiskey's as cheap as the beer.

And that skyline looks just like that postcard I sent you,

And darling, I wish that you were here.

Some folks travel for pleasure

And other folks just born to roam.

Some folks can't stand the pressure

And some of them never come home.

And I only go where I have to go

And I only come home when I'm done.

And if everything's right, then I'll be home Friday night,

Six hours ahead of the sun.

One more night in a transatlantic city

And you buy one round for everyone in sight

And you order up the same old glass of trouble

But trouble just don't taste the same tonight.

And the local bartender tells you all the stories

And the local lovelies dance before your eyes.

And they call that dance old "Younger's Tartan"

And I can't get all this mud out of my eyes.

Some folks drink when they're happy,

Other folks drink when they're dry.

Some folks drink so they won't have to think

And some other drink until they die.

But drinking just gives me amnesia

But the devil has a list of those who run.

Run, win, place, and show, and nowhere to go,

And six hours ahead of the sun.

Run, win, place, and show and nowhere to go,

And six hours ahead of the sun.