** Night Hawks©1997 **
by Andy Foster
There's a little restaurant on the west side of our town.
Everyone's been there, at least that's the way it sounds.
Vinyl booths, salad bar, pies baked there every day.
This ain't no chain abode, no this is the family way.

We're talk'in about The Night Hawks, Restaurant with the gift shop on the side.
Coffee talks at 9:05, County politics on the fry.
Big men and want-a-be's, politely exchange thoughts.
Small town like this everyone knows, who walks and talks the talk.

Hardly ever changed hands, last time in '45.
Post cards can tell it all, that place was really alive.
Ma-Bell construction workers, caught eggs and ham at dawn.
Pack there lunch and head it out, before I knew it, they were gone.

We're talking about Night Hawks, the Rodeo Room with the Rotary Clubs and JC's.
Hung their plaques and banners and tried to help many.
Growth and wealth and partnerships, were formed there everyday.
------------------------------this is the rural town way.

Other men who work the fields, seemed to treat it like its home.
All the time they spent there, you'd think that they were drawn.
Leathered hands, worn out hats and cigarette smoky breaths.
When they got up from their plates, you know there wasn't noth'in left.

We're talk'in bout Night Hawks, the bowling lanes that opened after five.
Drop your boots and slip on shoes, and roll a 209.
We're talk'in bout Night Hawks, the manual pins, you know the ones without machines.
Those who visited reg-u-lar-ly, roll 300 in their dreams.

But for me the one who'd been there, for most of all my life.
From the boss's big boy, to the teenager, to the college bound hope for strife.
Bigger and better isn't what you call home.
Its familiar places and friends.
That's what it meant to all of us, that small town eater-in.

We're talk'in bout Night Hawks, the hang out after school and games and dates.
Night Hawks, the cafe that was always open late.
We're talk'in bout Night Hawks, the melting pot, the place in town to be.
Night Hawks, the restaurant, that lives in you and me.

Copyright Andy Foster 1997