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

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