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the Lyrics
[Verse 1] Clock-paint drips down the power-line sky, Pockets ring hollow every time we try. We pawn loose seconds for transistor grin, Sidewalk metronomes tap the pulse beneath our skin. [Chorus] We own the hours the bankers can’t foreclose; No copper jingles where the riff-wind blows. Let ticks outrun the coins we never lend— Time’s on the house, cash is a ghost again. [Verse 2] Pay-phones rust in neon; we dial the rumor seam, Stitching myth to midnight over mugs of borrowed steam. Plans fold like origami—lift, twirl, then cave; We laugh in the wreckage, kings of untaxed wave. [Chorus] We own the hours the bankers can’t foreclose; No copper jingles where the riff-wind blows. Let ticks outrun the coins we never lend— Time’s on the house, cash is a ghost again. [Verse 3] An amp coughs sparks in a cellar off the grid, Door guy takes a scribble for the cover we never did. The band detunes sunrise till the daylight bends, We cash out in applause no ledger ever suspends. [Chorus] We own the hours the bankers can’t foreclose; No copper jingles where the riff-wind blows. Let ticks outrun the coins we never lend— Time’s on the house, cash is a ghost again.
the Story
Groove City, Summer of ’74—right when the smog turned neon and the traffic lights learned to breathe. Midnight hums through cracked sidewalks, rising like an old Hendrix lick from a warped record. Somewhere between the abandoned bowling alley and Mama Coyote’s pawnshop, a man named Mercer “Mercury” Jones drifts down Kaleidoscope Alley, clutching his last cigarette and a pocket watch that never ticks past twelve.
Mercury once fronted a fuzz-drenched blues outfit called The Cosmic Moneylenders, but a string of broken amps and unpaid bar tabs left him with only echoes and a leather jacket that smelled faintly of patchouli and ozone. He’s a walking paradox—time-rich, dime-barren—roaming the city for that next flash of sublime nonsense.
Tonight, the moon is a lava lamp. Blue globules float inside its glassy belly, twisting into shapes that might be conspiracy, might be prophecy. Mercury feels the night tug at his thoughts like a sitar solo bending notes until they melt.
He ducks into a backstreet bazaar lit by tie-dyed Chinese lanterns. Vendors peddle transistor radios tuned exclusively to stations that don’t exist. A woman with star tattoos sells bottled déjà vu: “Guaranteed to make everything feel twice as familiar, darling.” Across the way, a kid hawks cloud-shaped bubble gum that tastes like first kisses and wet asphalt. Mercury trades a half-remembered poem for a stick of that gum; the kid accepts, delighted—words, after all, are better currency than copper these days.
At the far end of the bazaar, beneath a tangerine awning that quivers like candle flame, sits Professor Palimpsest’s Time Exchange. No door, just hanging bead curtains that shimmer with every color humanity forgot to name. Inside, the professor—a rail-thin figure in mirrored aviators—operates a contraption of clocks whose gears spin counter to reason. Customers queue to swap unwanted memories for extra minutes, but Mercury strides past, watch clutched tight. He doesn’t need more minutes; he needs the right minute.
The professor greets him with a voice as smooth as reel-to-reel tape: “Looking to pawn a few lonely hours, my temporal vagabond?”
Mercury shakes his head, pockets smoking with empty air. “I’m here for sunrise, man. Heard you got a bootleg copy—pressed on gold vinyl, spins at thirty-three souls per second.”
Professor Palimpsest smiles like a Cheshire record sleeve. “Sunrise is expensive, even bootleg. What’ve you got to trade?”
Mercury pats himself down. No cash, no coins, not even a counterfeit coupon. All he finds is that dead pocket watch—the one forever stuck on twelve.
“This,” he says, offering it. “Clock that refuses to move. Burnt out on deadlines, still glows in the dark.”
The professor considers, twirling a tuning fork over the watch. It hums a sweet E-major chord, then quiets. “Stubborn little artifact—rare, rebellious. I’ll take it.”
With a flourish, Palimpsest pulls a dust-speckled record sleeve from beneath the counter. Hand-written label: Pawnshop Sunrise, Take Zero. Mercury presses the vinyl to his heart; it beats like a bass drum drenched in reverb.
“Drop the needle on the alley,” the professor instructs. “Sunrise will play where you stand.”
Mercury steps back outside, past the lanterns, past the bottled déjà vu. He places the record on the cracked asphalt and lowers an imaginary stylus. The groove catches, and suddenly the air shivers with electric dawn. Colors erupt—molten oranges drip from fire escapes, pinks and purples swirl like cymbal crashes across the sky. The buildings lean in, listening. Traffic halts mid-honk, and even the pigeons freeze mid-flap, feathers outlined in violet halo.
He hears it: a guitar riff carved from liquid chrome, drums pounding like cosmic jackhammers. Voices—choral yet ragged—croon about clocks that bleed and wallets that breathe. Mercury’s hair stands on end; sunrise isn’t just light—it’s a full-tilt jam session, the universe testing new speakers.
Time unspools. He watches his shadow elongate, shrink, dance, and finally step out of his body to boogie on its own. The alleyways bloom sunflowers out of chewing-gum stains. A forgotten pay-phone rings; the receiver lifts itself and sings harmony.
When the final chord sustains—long enough for a whole neighborhood to inhale—Mercury opens his eyes. The record has vanished. So has the alley bazaar, the lanterns, the professor. In their place: a pristine morning street, birds arguing overhead, and a single gold coin at his feet, stamped with the image of a stilled pocket watch.
He pockets the coin, laughs—a sound rusty but righteous. Maybe he’ll buy breakfast, maybe he’ll invest in nothing but more wandering. Either way, the pawnshop sunrise lingers in his bloodstream like a permanent chorus.
As Mercury strides toward the horizon, the city wakes behind him. Office clocks restart, traffic resumes, pigeons flap free. But somewhere, in the hush between seconds, a riff still rings—reminding Groove City that wealth isn’t minted; it’s amplified.
And Mercury Jones, broke and brilliant, carries on, humming the tune only dawn and drifters will ever truly know.
