Six Hours Ahead Of The Sun

One more night in a transatlantic city
 And the clocks all run on someone else's time
 And the streets run so close to the houses,
 But none of them run into mine.
 And the people are all in a hurry
 And the whiskey's as cheap as the beer.
 And that skyline looks just like that postcard I sent you,
 And darling, I wish that you were here.
 Some folks travel for pleasure
 And other folks just born to roam.
 Some folks can't stand the pressure
 And some of them never come home.
 And I only go where I have to go
 And I only come home when I'm done.
 And if everything's right, then I'll be home Friday night,
 Six hours ahead of the sun.
 One more night in a transatlantic city
 And you buy one round for everyone in sight
 And you order up the same old glass of trouble
 But trouble just don't taste the same tonight.
 And the local bartender tells you all the stories
 And the local lovelies dance before your eyes.
 And they call that dance old "Younger's Tartan"
 And I can't get all this mud out of my eyes.
 Some folks drink when they're happy,
 Other folks drink when they're dry.
 Some folks drink so they won't have to think
 And some other drink until they die.
 But drinking just gives me amnesia
 But the devil has a list of those who run.
 Run, win, place, and show, and nowhere to go,
 And six hours ahead of the sun.
 Run, win, place, and show and nowhere to go,
 And six hours ahead of the sun.