| And it’s stains in the wainscotting
|
| Cracks in the baseboard
|
| Arachnid in the corner serving up face
|
| Like whose house you think this is?
|
| Prism vision in low light
|
| Scan prison tats on the back of a low life lifeless
|
| And a broke nose might just be done drippin'
|
| Wet all night
|
| It dries deep red on a off white carpet
|
| And a soft light arcs just above arm height
|
| All white Vans placed on the floor
|
| Pack of Pall Mall lights
|
| Bites marks on a half sandwich with no crust
|
| Mustard and mayonnaise
|
| Lettuce and red cold cuts
|
| Moonlight streams through window dust
|
| It floats up to the ceiling fan that creaks from rust
|
| As it labors to go around
|
| Trying to catch that feeling
|
| And the paint on his base is peeling
|
| And the taste in the air is faint but there
|
| Just enough that the rats are nearing
|
| Cause where there’s blood there’s feast and famine
|
| Makes murder a meal
|
| And the cheap wall clock will stop at one shot
|
| So he knew it was time to kill
|
| Bust one shot if your blood still pumping
|
| Bust two shots if you’re really 'bout something
|
| Three little pigs and they can’t do nothing for the last time
|
| You can’t run you just a body for the pile, body for the pile
|
| Body for the pile, body for the pile
|
| You just a body for the pile, body for the pile
|
| And you should probably take your last breath right about now
|
| Office highly decorated
|
| Plastic frames around diplomas, all the commendations
|
| Accommodating swivel chair where the blue suited sir sits slumped
|
| Brains splattered, wall stained, grey matter runs
|
| Badge with his name makes blood on the tongue
|
| 'Cause it’s pinned to his right cheek
|
| Right where the gun must have first flirted
|
| Before it was stuck in his mouth
|
| Officer *bleep* with his brains blown out
|
| Water pitcher with the ice
|
| Two glasses one either side
|
| Of the desk the lipstick left on one appears to smile wide
|
| And the slanted blinds are squinting just enough
|
| For the sunrise to zebra stripe the room with light
|
| He would have had to shield his eyes
|
| But they wide open no motion
|
| No, he never flinched
|
| Palms flat on the table, didn’t seem to move an inch
|
| Fish bowl on the far side of the room
|
| Where goldfish swims around
|
| Suspicious of the gun that now sits in the bowl with him
|
| Bust one shot if your blood still pumping
|
| Bust two shots if you’re really 'bout something
|
| Three little pigs and they can’t do nothing for the last time
|
| You can’t run you just a body for the pile, body for the pile
|
| Body for the pile, body for the pile
|
| You just a body for the pile, body for the pile
|
| And you should probably take your last breath right about now
|
| Red and blue light spinning
|
| On the corner by the new fried chicken spot
|
| Cop car hopped the curb then absurdly hit the hydrant
|
| Which wouldn’t stop
|
| Spraying water that’s dripping over the face that’s made its way through the
|
| windshield
|
| And cuttin' bleedin' the people leaving the scene and saying they never seen him
|
| Coming but he must have run the light, he never rolled
|
| Hand is reaching for the gun but couldn’t get a hold
|
| So, it’s sitting limp up on the dash
|
| And all the flashing of the cameras is lighting up the noontime cold
|
| Overcast broken glass
|
| On the concrete the scent of gasoline
|
| Hovers over the motor smoke
|
| And the single broken bicycle spoke wheel still protruding
|
| The medics moving the little twisted body to bag it up
|
| Detective notices the traffic camera then calls the station to back it up
|
| And somewhere the screams turn into sobs
|
| And the sirens mix with the howls of dogs
|
| And from the water the rolling fog
|
| Scented wet as the breath of God
|
| They say in the greyscale city
|
| Where the skies are scraped
|
| And the days are pretty much shaded
|
| You never know the faithful, they walk and they pray
|
| And there’s one less lung sucking air today so
|
| Bust one shot if your blood still pumping
|
| Bust two shots if you’re really 'bout something
|
| Three little pigs and they can’t do nothing for the last time
|
| You can’t run you just a body for the pile, body for the pile
|
| Body for the pile, body for the pile
|
| You just a body for the pile, body for the pile
|
| And you should probably take your last breath right about now |