| Pocket knife and a little bit of bread crumbs
|
| Hot sun beating down like a bass drum
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| Whiskey burning with the smoke filling my lungs
|
| Smoking as the night comes, smoking ‘till the days done
|
| Singing songs like a choir to a deaf nun
|
| Looking mean like a biker with shotgun
|
| Heavy hitting, we were spittin' till the road’s done
|
| Listen to the end come, coda when the line’s done
|
| Sun coming down on the dead street
|
| Listen to the concrete making music under our feet
|
| Living life like an old seat sitting when we need be
|
| We were runnin' from police
|
| Jeremiah, he was taken as a young one
|
| Passing time shooting bullets with his dad’s gun
|
| Shot a bullet hit his momma with a stray one
|
| Locked him with the bad ones, no interrogation
|
| Charlie Baker was a different situation
|
| A proper student getting higher education
|
| Well all the pressure of the lessons made him crazy
|
| Cut his little lady, never getting married
|
| Running till they’re buried
|
| Sun coming down on the dead street
|
| Listen to the concrete making music under our feet
|
| Living life like an old seat sitting when we need be
|
| We were runnin' from the police
|
| Runnin' from the police
|
| Sun coming down on the dead street
|
| Listen to the concrete making music under our feet
|
| Living life like an old seat sitting when we need be
|
| We were runnin' from the police
|
| We were runnin' from the police
|
| We were runnin' from the police
|
| We were runnin' from the police
|
| Runnin' from the police |