Mr. Clean, on his high horse,
trots into town a little before noon.
Two empty guns flapping on his hips.
A hush falls over the saloon.
The bear trapper puts his hands in his pockets.
The poet throws darts at a whale.
The bartenders on his knees in the storeroom.
The sheriff’s locked himself in jail.
Even the gamblers can hear the wind blow
as Mr. Clean swings through the door.
The waitress is serving shots over at the counter
but the bourbon turns to water as she pours.
The magician, hurredly, sneaks out the back door.
Can’t blame him because he don’t know
how the deck of cards all turned to jokers.
Why the black keys disappeared from the piano.
Mr. Clean gives a wink his teeth are shining.
The harlots tie ribbons in their hair.
The minister is crying in the corner
and it all just echos in the air.
Somewhere, a young boy is having visions
of strange music and revolutions in the clouds.
It’s like he hears a far off distant whisper
and he’s just dying to know what they’re talking about.
Well now I don’t know wher Mr. Clean is.
He sort of just left without a word.
He sort of just left everybody hanging.
Someone said someone heard he said, “I’ll return.”
Someone said he’s hiding in his closet.
Someone said he’s on a mountain top on his knees.
Someone said he was slain by a dark night
in some country overseas.
But the rumor that interests me the most is that
all those people from the saloon who can’t be found.
Right now, they’re raising their glasses up in toast
to a room that they’ve opened underground.
That is where I’m headin’.
Cause that’s where anything goes.
I can picture the painting on the postcard.
Dear Mr. Clean, who knows? Love, everyone from below.