Well I guess it's true
Pete writes hits
I just write hitlists
I'm not a hitman
I'm not even really a hit, man
I'm not really a rockstar, but I rolled him over while he was passed out
Stone-drunk on the floor
Stole his wallet, watch and keys
All I still have is his day planner
It's a struggle to make every date
Every photo op with paris
I get spread thin, worn out
Always on a plane
Hoodie up, headphones on
Every three weeks
Like clockwork
Now it's to vegas
On to Minneapolis/St. Paul
On the run
Towards something instead of away
Kind of a reverse witness protection program
Only she's the mafia don
And I look terrible in the nun's habit
All washed out in black and white
The way pictures look taken with disposable cameras
Disposable camera, pictures forever
Though it always seems like the memory fades much faster than the picture
I've told the new philly story so many times it seems like it almost just that
A story
Passed away into legend, you me and andrea

-J