Song Lyrics

And it's stains in the wainscotting
Cracks in the baseboard
Arachnid in the corner serving up face
Like whose house you think this is?
Prism vision in low light
Scan prison tats on the back of a low life lifeless
And a broke nose might just be done drippin'
Wet all night
It dries deep red on the off white carpet
And a soft light arcs just above arm height
All white Vans placed on the floor
Pack of Pall Mall lights
Bite marks on a half sandwich with no crust
Mustard and mayonnaise
Lettuce and red cold cuts
Moonlight streams through window dust
It floats up to the ceiling fan that creaks from rust
As it labors to go around
Trying to catch that feeling
And the paint on his base is peeling
And the taste in the air is faint but there
Just enough that the rats are nearing
Cause where there's blood there's feast and famine
Makes murder a meal
And the cheap wall clock will stop at one shot
So he knew it was time to kill

Bust one shot if your blood still pumping
Bust two shots if you're really 'bout something
Three little pigs and they can't do nothing for the last time
You can't run, you just a body for the pile, body for the pile
Body for the pile, body for the pile
You just a body for the pile, body for the pile
And you should probably take your last breath right about now

Office highly decorated
Plastic frames around diplomas, all the commendations
Accommodating swivel chair where the blue suited sir sits slumped
Brains splattered, wall stained, grey matter runs
Badge with his name makes blood on the tongue
'Cause it's pinned to his right cheek
Right where the gun must have first flirted
Before it was stuck in his mouth
Officer, with his brains blown out
Water pitcher with the ice
Two glasses one either side
Of the desk the lipstick left on one appears to smile wide
And the slatted blinds are squinting just enough
For the sunrise to zebra stripe the room with light
He would have had to shield his eyes
But they wide open, no motion
No, he never flinched
Palms flat on the table, didn't seem to move an inch
Fish bowl on the far side of the room
Where goldfish swims around
Suspicious of the gun that now sits in the bowl with him

Bust one shot if your blood still pumping
Bust two shots if you're really 'bout something
Three little pigs and they can't do nothing for the last time
You can't run, you just a body for the pile, body for the pile
Body for the pile, body for the pile
You just a body for the pile, body for the pile
And you should probably take your last breath right about now

Red and blue light spinning
On the corner by the new fried chicken spot
Cop car hopped the curb then absurdly hit the hydrant
Which wouldn't stop
Spraying water that's dripping over the face
That's made its way through the windshield
And cuttin' bleedin' the people leaving the scene and saying they never seen him
Coming but he must have run the light, he never rolled
Hand is reaching for the gun but couldn't get a hold
So, it's sitting limp up on the dash
And all the flashing of the cameras is lighting up the noontime cold
Overcast broken glass
On the concrete the scent of gasoline
Hovers over the motor smoke
And the single broken bicycle spoke wheel still protruding
The medics moving the little twisted body to bag it up
Detective notices the traffic camera then calls the station to back it up
And somewhere the screams turn into sobs
And the sirens mix with the howls of dogs
And from the water the rolling fog
Scented wet, it's the breath of God
They say in the greyscale city
Where the skies are scraped
And the days are pretty much shaded
You never know the faithful, they walk and they pray
And there's one less lung sucking air today so

Bust one shot if your blood still pumping
Bust two shots if you're really 'bout something
Three little pigs and they can't do nothing for the last time
You can't run, you just a body for the pile, body for the pile
Body for the pile, body for the pile
You just a body for the pile, body for the pile
And you should probably take your last breath right about now

Daveed Diggs, William Moran Hutson, Jonathan Raleigh Snipes, Chris Goudreau