What'll It Be?

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 beers
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 Deb a vodka and cranberry juice?

Hey, Deb, I'll 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?