| Running pell-mell and harum-scarum
|
| Running as hot as they do or dare
|
| Stick out your tongue
|
| And drink down all the venom
|
| From Cut-Throat Cuthbert
|
| And Millicent St. Cyr
|
| From the real old Macau
|
| To the new False Americas
|
| In the liberated territories
|
| Unusual suspects shake down
|
| Shake down, shake down
|
| Various dubious characters
|
| Mother’s in the kitchen picking bones for breakfast
|
| Boiling them down by the bushel and the score
|
| Pull out your thumb and count what’s left of your fist
|
| There’s a wolf at the window with ravening maw
|
| Did you find how to lie?
|
| Did you find out just how to cheat?
|
| The elite bleat, their obsolete
|
| But are your prospects?
|
| Exact, perfect object
|
| Now, if you’d only genuflect
|
| They’re running wild
|
| Just like some childish tantrum
|
| Meanwhile we’re working every day
|
| Paying off the National Ransom
|
| Woe betide all this hocus-pocus
|
| They’re running us ragged at their first attempt
|
| Around the time the killing stopped on Wall St
|
| You couldn’t hold me, baby with anything but contempt
|
| Letters peal slowly from our speech
|
| The claxton attempts to preach
|
| Stretching for stars still out of reach
|
| Drowning
|
| Flailing
|
| Outside someone’s wailing |