Rooftop Gambler by Pavement
Bad Brains drop,
They rip you like a Sunday paper.
Glass clear,
Hold me like a suicide ranger in his lair,
A suicide ranger,
Uh, uh, ah.
Down on saint Kit's and I was lost in a haze of
Tax shelters and Mardi Gras and polluted bays, but
My Cadillac mind recalls a time that you walked around an island forty times
Who whispers from the natives in their two paying cars.
Angel got to see where you hide,
She might know when you die.
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