Trish Murphy Sunday
There's a shoot-out at the Eye-hopBetween a forth ward
kid and a third shift cop.
Two time losers drinking coffee
And no one saw a thing.
Crank out, crack out, it's hard to tell.
But you can't see his face now too well.
He can in empty handed with a gun stuck in his jeans.
And the cop orders the New York club
So the waitress steps around the blood.
The last reminding sliver of some
South flying dream.
Now the cops are telling jokes
About some whore-house near Fair Oaks.
And the rhinos shuffle past
The last to survey the scene.
And in an hour and a quarter
All their paper work's in order.
So they finish off their pancakes
While the floor is getting cleaned.
And a body car arrives and takes...
And they're taking down the yellow tape.
And they'll all get home before daybreak
Like Sunday in New Orleans.
And the cop orders the New York club
So the waitress steps around the blood.
The last remaining sliver of some
South flying dream.
Mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm.
Oooh, oooh, ooooh.
