Verse 1:
Yo he’s Tony Soprano of Collins Cove, kid, watching the ducks
Old Thompson in the pocket, kid we call it lunch
You can’t relate, eye’s dinner plates make
Yo, the dumb look dumber, kid, they’re mumbling they’re great
Now it’s Salem down to North Station, back up to Haverhill
What the kid do? Besides crushing up, all the pain pills
Levitated stakes, kid Sweeps spins the plates
Generate the charge to keep my whole style awake
Been a while since I’ve taken everything on your plate
Save your face I keep it moving like the product on the way
Call me DHL like the dude heavy late
Kid’ll sock it to your eye-socket, kid, and pocket up the change
Poke your brain with your nose bone on Fat Albert breaks
Kid up in your view his crooked tooth gave it away
Last seen tragically, flapping gums happily
For anything and anyone who’d listen to his majesty
Hook:
Yo, catch him up at Dead Horse Beach by the gas tank
Chop-Suey sandwiches, smoked tea lapsing
Old Thompson bottles with a grip of smoked bones in em
Kid’s slick, but got a little old soul in him
(Kid’s slick, but got a little old soul in him)
Verse 2:
Kid spitting at the Bill and Bob’s parking lot dump ducks
Scratch ticket champions with hard hats in dump trucks
Ninety-nine beer garden fights frequent
A broke nose, I suppose could be called piquant
Crushing gravel at the Anchor for a couple hundred beers
Stains on his bomber like fresh outta Cheers
Call him Norm like McDonald like the legend
Catch him in the corner puffing dirt brown lettuce
Lynn’s the Walnut, where old men’s wallets
Got a chain that connects them from their belt to their pockets
Hell’s Angels neighbors – always paid the rent on time
But if you got a six pack, you better bet it’s five
I know some rough cats smelling like the tanneries
Grandfather’s fathers used to work polluting everything
The North Shore’s a haven for some cold beach drinking
Catch me with a bottle not speaking
Hook:
Yo, catch him up at Dead Horse Beach by the gas tank
Chop-Suey sandwiches, smoked tea lapsing
Old Thompson bottles with a grip of smoked bones in em
Kid’s slick, but got a little old soul in him
(Kid’s slick, but got a little old soul in him)
Outro:
He’s at the Polish American Veteran’s League
With the pickled-egg breath down and outers
Placing bets, listening to Stan Getz and shitting on your family crest
The no-tooth losers with dead dreams
The boozers who knew the future was dead mean
Glasses up if you know what the kid means
Per usual, this is a Bill Grease and Sweeps tragedy
Carefully crafted for those who know, and those who don’t
I need another Heineken
