Put Your Dreams Back in Your Apron

Dale Houstman

The first song I ever wrote at the tender age of 50. Late night pie and coffee with a little disillusionment.
……
Put Your Dreams Back In Your Apron

He drifted down Main to the Battery Inn
Trying not to think about the shape he was in
Took a header in the market of flesh on the bone
Now
He don’t need nothing
He don’t need nothing
He don’t need nothing
He’s hung up the phone

The waitress (call her Honey) was thrilled at the sight
Of a man coming in at this hour of the night
She started in to talking about summer and spring
But
He don’t need nothing
He don’t need nothing
He don’t need nothing
Except for one thing

He said
“Put your dreams back in your apron Honey
Just leave’em to die
Put your dreams back in your apron Sweets
And bring me some pie.”

The waitress sidled over to cut him a slice
Of something warm and tender with a smell that was nice
She tried to cheer him up with a tale of romance
But
He don’t need nothing
He don’t need nothing
He don’t need nothing
He can’t take that chance

No cream in his coffee cause he liked his jag black
Hotter than the sun to fill in the cracks
He stirs time away while Honey hangs near
But
He don’t need nothing
He don’t need nothing
He don’t need nothing
Yet he says loud and clear

“Put your dreams back in your apron Honey
Just leave’em to die
Put your dreams back in your apron Sweets
And bring me some pie.”

The sunshine in Honey had started to fade
Under the bruise of her customer’s shade
The next piece he got was cold as the night
Cause
She don’t need nothing
She don’t need nothing
She don’t need nothing
She’d turned off the light

The drifter called her over and tossed her a smile
Packed with needy anger yet pretty as bile
Begging her forgiveness for his handful of crimes
But
She don’t need nothing
She don’t need nothing
She don’t nothing
He’d taught her his line

She said
“Put your dreams back in your pocket Mister
Just leave’em to die
Put your dreams back in your pocket
And finish your pie”

He drifted up Main to the Hotel De Jour
Toward a sleep that would ruffle his vagabond fur
Not certain now that he’d left her a tip
But
She don’t need nothing
She don’t need nothing
She don’t need nothing
As she wiped up his drips