Lyrics Hotline Miami - Tryhardninja, Dan Bull, Sparkles*

Hotline Miami

Hi kids, do you like violence?
Seeing people dying to the cries of the sirens?
Leaving the crime scene nothing like you arrived
Full of bile, blood and another bunch of satisfied clients?
Well then you dialed the right hotline
Miami has a lot of numbers and of all of them you got mine
My top advice is not to get bothered with plot line
Just call us up and then I’ll see if I can drop by
It all started with a call to East Seventh Street
I was blessed with a request that didn’t need any pleasantries
There’s no intense a feeling as dealing senseless beatings
To people who you previously wouldn’t ever meet
Talk about being dead on your feet
The second that I enter people seem to end in a heap
I guess they can’t deal well with the American heat
That makes you sweat red and then puts you forever to sleep
I guess I’m one heck of an interior decorator
Interfere with investigators, escalate a petty situation into mayhem
Exit stage left and step on the accelerator
The rest is even better, but I’d better tell you later
Because I’ve got another message and it won’t wait
Someone needs me to clean their mess up in my own way
No fidgeting or messing and there’s no delay
Fifty blessings later hit the motorway and rode away
There’s one new message on your answer machine, it says:
How long d’you reckon that your hands’ll be clean, it says:
It’s dirty work, but someone’s got to do the job
To go beserk and roll in the filth with the mob
Under neon lights
One phone call will decide who lives or dies
'Cause greed turns into pain and no one can escape
The crimson rain that pours over my soul
On these hot Miami nights
Wo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
These hot Miami nights
Wo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
'Cause greed turns into pain and no one can escape
The crimson rain that pours over my soul
On these hot Miami nights
Strip lights flicker as I sip my liquor
This life’s sick and you can get by quicker
If you live like a sinner with your finger by the trigger
Or the throat of a foe, so it’s goodbye, Richter
Wherever I go I seem to stand alone
Whether I head to the pizza shack or hang at home
Answer to no one but the answer phone, man, I love that hang up tone
More than a saxophone solo and a bag of blow
I’m holding a bat and donning an animal mask
So you can probably tell I’ve had a problematical past
But these aren’t irrational acts, I’m enacting the task
That I’ve been handed by the man requiring absolute tact
And as a matter of fact, I’m really flattered he asked me
Because I’m a one man catastrophe factory
Think the Mafia’s bad?
You must be having a laugh, see
The man behind each massive massacre?
That’s me
There’s one new message on your answer machine, it says:
How long d’you reckon that your hands’ll be clean, it says:
It’s dirty work, but someone’s got to do the job
To go beserk and roll in the filth with the mob
Under neon lights
One phone call will decide who lives or dies
'Cause greed turns into pain and no one can escape
The crimson rain that pours over my soul
On these hot Miami nights
Wo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
These hot Miami nights
Wo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
'Cause greed turns into pain and no one can escape
The crimson rain that pours over my soul
On these hot Miami nights