Something happened up in robin hood hills, the devil had his way but the locals say they’re on to something. They say it’s written for you, no matter what you do. Since Geneva’s nearly drowned, since the tinsmith was gagged and bound, since the rich boys got away, two shovels and a skull of the widower brave.Īnother indefinite detention, anther tradition saved, all hail the line of crooked white chiefs, whose father stole the bones from an Indian grave.Ĭome all the unfortunates, come on with your throwaway youth. The weathervanes are charging down the hill, in some quixotic cavalry and the war is shaking in its sleep and the homesick ghost of Geronimo, I fear is taking all the absinthe, there must be another way. Still the years they go by, no charge or trial date, you’re accused of whatever you confess to, until then you won’t see the light of day. Got his dick up in a chickenhawk, life is what he’ll get, war president is a criminal.

Jefferson roll over and tell ol’ Stalin the news, they got ‘em locked up in Castroland redefining abuse in shades of gray. Heard you sold your friend, got a good price at the local store, you know he could’ve turned you in, could have been you on the concrete floor.