One last round, one last round
Played to eleven people for six years and then to eleven thousand in one summer
the numbers
- bpm
- 144
- key
- G# major
- energy
- 0.72
- dance
- 0.95
- valence
- 0.55
- vocal at
- 2.7s
- length
- 3:01
- language
- En
lyrics
Forks in the sink, blue gloves by the tray Fluorescent hum over chip fat and gray Five to six ten, I wipe down the rail My name on the rota, bent with the nail Till the cleaner gets the mop and the key Till the shutter comes down by the sea I hate this floor, but I know every mark Every chipped tile, every cold door in the dark One last round, one last round One last round, one last round Hands in my pockets, feet on the ground One last round, one last round Back room smells like bleach and old tea The till screen flashes at six twenty-three Mick from the yard bangs the hatch with a grin Says, "You’re out for a pint when you clock this in" Till the last bus groans past Kirkgate Till my boots hit the mat at the gate I curse this place, but I know the sound Of the van keys ringing when the day shuts down One last round, one last round One last round, one last round Hands in my pockets, feet on the ground One last round, one last round Half-used sponge, cracked mug, bent tin lid The radio hisses where the kettle just skidded I’ll miss the graft, I’ll miss the crew I’ll miss the mad little mess I’ve lived through One last round, one last round One last round, one last round Hands in my pockets, feet on the ground One last round, one last round