Last shift home, last shift home
Four friends who record in a garage and refuse to move to a real studio
the numbers
- bpm
- 92
- key
- D# major
- energy
- 0.69
- dance
- 0.89
- valence
- 0.45
- vocal at
- 6.2s
- length
- 3:09
- language
- En
lyrics
Clock says five fifty-eight I wipe the fryer with a rag My name tag hangs on the hook By a cracked blue paper bag Grease in the cuff of my sleeve Receipt tape curled by the till Columbus rain on the glass And my boots by the sill Boss says, “Two more minutes” I nod like I’ll stay I fold my apron slow Like I’m tucking it away Last shift home, last shift home I say it under my breath Last shift home, last shift home While I count up what is left Last shift home, last shift home I know this place too well Last shift home, last shift home I’m gonna miss this hell The coffee urn spits steam On the dented metal sink The mop bucket leaves a line Where the floorboards sink Marisol at the back door Hands me one last paper cup She says, “Don’t be a stranger” I laugh and look up One more sweep of the aisle One more key in the lock The vending machine hums Like a clock inside a clock Last shift home, last shift home I say it under my breath Last shift home, last shift home While I count up what is left Last shift home, last shift home I know this place too well Last shift home, last shift home I’m gonna miss this hell In the glovebox, my lunch tin And a pen with a cracked cap The radio in my truck Keeps turning back, turning back I hated every early bell Every stain on my hands Still, the whole damn crew Feels like worn-in plans Last shift home, last shift home I say it under my breath Last shift home, last shift home While I count up what is left Last shift home, last shift home I know this place too well Last shift home, last shift home I’m gonna miss this hell