I was lookin' for a bar, just like Diogenes,
Full of drunks, but not just any drunks, you understand:
Philosopher drunks, and poet drunks--drunks trained by hand--
And beautiful women, they'd be perfectly drunk, too,
Reclining against an upholstered rail with absolutely nothing else to do.

(chorus)All these folks would be there, all the live-long day,
And when I'd get good and warmed up, I'd come in and play.
I'd sing all of my songs for them, each and every one,
The sad ones and the happy ones, the songs without a name,
And joy would fill the air like fizz, in a good champagne.

The poets would all come up to me, when I was done,
They'd shake my hand and clap my back, we'd have some fun.
The philosopher drunks'd smile knowingly, and tilt their glasses at me too--
Too shy to clap, at least they wouldn't run.
They'd tidy up their tables, and calculate the coming of the sun.
(chorus)

And all the beautiful women--they'd line up at the door,
And carry my guitars out to my car, one by one by one,
And kiss my lips goodnight, Just like my mother did away back then,
When I was very young.

I just couldn't end it there--I'd have to take them home,
And one would quote Spinoza, and the other Des-car-tes,
And from the back a soft sweet voice would whisper Sophocles,
And in the morning there'd be coffee, on the patio, for four--
And I'd never ever go a gigging anymore!