Crooked Cop Songtext

like happy, little stage lights

in the cold, dark corners of los angeles
i'm living off the sweet taste of the president's piss
do you think i want to run?
you think i wish that i was done?
baby i'm just having fun.

up above is a cloud of smoke
think, dark, and grey
that isn't drifting away
and everybody knows
there will be no fire hose
cause this time everything goes

we are dying slaves
singing love songs
for rich white knaves
we are the center piece
for fucked up families eating on christmas eve
before the fathers leave

boy you better hold your tongue
you do not want your family
to know your dumb
keep track of all
your little precious lies
whispered in shopping malls
to keep the spirits high

and the morning she is coming aroound
making loud but beautiful sounds
and your hands are bloody, broken, and bruised
and yes, she sees you

a thousand lies
will noy keep my hand from the door
so close your eyes
cause you dont need em anymore

i've met kids like you
and i know exactly what you'll do
so dont give me that shit
cause i've had enough of it

i know i'm not a bad kid
i know what's coming for me
and i know what isn't happening

and i know that i've used
the time on my hands
and the words on my mind
for some pretty terrible things

let me tell you
that what you dont know will help you
so keep your eyes on the ground
and don't fucking look around

because they wont put you in a cemetery
they'll throw you in the river
plastic bags will carry not a word
not a shiver

she knows she knows she knows she knows
but that won't keep the exhaust pipe from the hose
and everybody knows
so it goes so it goes so it goes

the world is easy
to understand
from the backseat of a rental sedan

riding the comfortable,
warm wake
of your father's brief but beautiful break

the powerful display
casts its shadow on the merritt parkway

that wet cement is gonna dry up quick
and those yellow broken lines, they're gonna make you sick

so come with me now,
to the hot block
we will write our names
on the sidewalk

look at you, liquidator
i'm your hired gun
you're my curator

your screams are high pitched
and beautiful
when taken out of context

the purple sky outside
gives off cold, dim light
as it covers the night

it reminds you of waking up, half-asleep
and lazing in the car with your family

passing the oil wells up and down
downtown, a ghost town
gliding over open ground

to climb on a plane
and be delivered some place far far away

so think about that little kid,
bit your lip, and lower eyelids

think about that little kid
because it's all over now, you can't change what you did

we're all just a little empty
but still happy
each one of us a tiny aftershock
a chip off the block, a ticking clock
a friendly competition
who can get the most fucked up.
are our fists as tight as they will ever be?
we'll all have to wait and see.