Your gunshots were stuck on repeat

Drowning out the quietness that I worked to create

So there's you - you with your manicure

And me in my stocking cap in te trunk of your car

Oh, to think of the explanations

That you will soon conjure for the reporters

With their beady eyes, strapped in pressed jackets

With termeramental microphones, and lack of respect

And there's you - you with your car

Headed for St. Augustine just as fast as the sun

I will see you again