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Out exchanging pleasantries in a railroad thunder morning
The air too thick to get a word in
A shoot em up again last night a banker told a watchmen
As the city takes to rising to its opportunities
A gold rush and a slave ship walk together down the main
strip handing literature to blind rats that gather for a meal
But the postmen don't work for free,
At least that's what they claim to be
A messenger is a messenger, no matter if they shoot or run
Oh you can't be the last one to know
It seemed like word got around
But you can't deny the sound
The grand parental moral debt protects its own against
all threats to liberty, security, and words of certain kinds
But the matchmakers are praised for their omnipotent ancient ways
Of pointing out the rainbows
Just after the storm
Oh you can't be the last one to know
It seemed like word got around
But you can't deny the sound
It's hard to pronounce sorrow in the face of men of
constant borrowed loyalty to language, as if tattooed on their arms,
Like a curbside gutter drain,
a sentence can't catch everything,
and American commandments, are weathering on the stone
Oh you can't be the last one to know
It seemed like word got around
But you can't deny the sound