Six Hours Ahead of the Sun Steve Goodman

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