Saint Conformity - Howe Gelb, A Band Of Gypsies

He’s got a mean streak that’s 2 miles wide

A wicked widow’s peak that his lost hat won’t hide

Has some family round here well aware of his leathery pride

Lives down by the racetrack so he knows the inside

He’s not a bad joe, just talk to the girl that used to know

She was a waitress for a while, 'til the clubhouse changed her style

She went from small town looker

To dressing like a myopic optimistic hooker

Well adorned with accessory

Like the back hand of benny the booker

Oh conformity, saint conformity

Won’t you come down here

And clutter up her form for me

If l live my life in routine would you make the meantime

A little less mean

It’s a watermark, this thing you settled for

Corrosive material, this thing you settled for

It’s an endless ache, a heart attack and an earthquake

All of this and more, or less, this thing you settled for

His tongue has the bite, 'til he pickles it just right

His brain took the train, which left his heart out in the rain

His manner is neglect, any of your help is only suspect

His memory is stuck in slo-mo rewind of how her eyes used to shine