Rash of Robberies

Solarium malaria looking for the stereo
Wanted to save being excommunicated from the area
A it’s okay.
In the city he said he cut a cord of wood,
No bigger than a thimble but still plenty good.
A it’s okay.

Cause it’s just a bump on a rash of robberies.
On account of the world economy that’s making us sick.

Go get the man who said he’s on to me,
He thinks we’re in the kitchen with our sticks.
But he don’t know that Paris is burning down,
You’d never know it in this town.
The governor’s walking around like he’s got tricks for you.

Catch as Cassius never became the killing machine,
Run him over ruff shod ‘till he bleeds army green out,
So devout to the saint that lost his seat he never seen,
Semi-automatic rosary out devout.

Cause it’s just a bump on a rash of robberies.
In a world to sad for Solomon we just sit.

I’ll watch your economy,
I’ll tell you when the police have it fixed.

Paris is burning down,
You’d never know it in this town.
The governor’s walking around like he’s got tricks for you.

So take a minute to laugh it over,
We’ll make sure it’s all true,
Just like she said behind the barn on last December eve.

Baby falls 40 feet caught by a street cleaner
Coming home from the union hall, he saw the fall.
A it’s okay.
JP Sousa found a radio, a radio
Sousa found a place to go, a radio in his head that said…

It’s just a bump on a rash of robberies,
An old sand lot anomaly that’s saving this day.
In a world too sad for sodomy
We’re just sitting in the kitchen with our stray.

But Paris is burning down
Governors are walking around
We’ll make sure that they do right by you.

So you think you might go to Beatrice
Even though the letter was never found,
Maybe it will come tomorrow noon.

She is asking her fallen saint to
Please return her straight-laced fighter
Who don’t know who she is,
He don’t know who she is.

Where are you my sweet Desmond Doss,
Have you softly gone to winter,
Here I’ve brought you your two two-dollar bills back.

But I’m not waiting for sweet Eliza.
She can have her watercolors back,
I found them on last December eve.

You look strangely quite so familiar,
The way you talk of suppertime
But I don’t know who she is,
Don’t know who she is.

And you, you bring this beloved stranger
At the foot of this pile on Gideon’s bed,
She gave me a needlepoint motorbike.

SO go and take this to sweet Eliza,
It was written and gently given to the courier
Pending arrival soon.

Could you hold me just one more older
Then I’ll go as your fallen fighter
Waiting at the door, can’t see you anymore,

Here my dear a sweet Nostrovia,
In a letter sent to December.
I will wait for you to just humble me home.