| Song | Rash of Robberies |
| Artist | State Radio |
| Album | Year of the Crow |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : State Radio | |
| Solarium malaria lookin' for the stereo. | |
| Wanted to save being excommunicated from the area. | |
| A it's ok. | |
| In the city she said he cut a cord of wood, | |
| No bigger than thimble but still plenty good. | |
| A it's ok. ' | |
| Cause it's just a bump on a rash of robberies. | |
| On account of the world economy that's makin' us sick. | |
| Go get the man who said he's on to me, | |
| He thinks we're in the kitchen with our sticks. | |
| But he don't know that | |
| Paris is burnin' down, | |
| You'd never know it in this town. | |
| The governor's walkin' around like he's got tricks for you. | |
| Catch as Casius never become the killing machine. | |
| Run him over ruff shod 'til he bleeds army green out. | |
| So devout to the saint that lost his seat he never seen, | |
| Semi-automatic rosary out devout. ' | |
| Cause it's just a bump on a rash of robberies. | |
| In a world too sad for | |
| Solomon we just sit. | |
| I'll watch your economy, | |
| I'll tell you when the police have it fixed. | |
| Paris is burnin' down, | |
| You'd never know it in this town. | |
| The governor's walkin' around like he's got tricks for you. | |
| So take a minute to laugh it over, | |
| We'll make sure it's all true, | |
| Just like she said, | |
| Behind the barn last | |
| December eve. | |
| Baby falls 40 feet caught by a street cleaner coming home from the union hall, | |
| He saw the fall. | |
| A it's ok. | |
| JP Sousa found a radio, a radio. | |
| Sousa found a place to go, | |
| A radio in his head that said. | |
| It's just a bump on a rash of robberies, | |
| An old sand lot anomaly that's savin' this day. | |
| In a world too sad for sodomy | |
| We're just sitting in the kitchen with our stray. | |
| But Paris is burnin' down, | |
| Governors are walkin' around, | |
| We'll make sure that they do right by you. | |
| So you think you might go to | |
| Beatrice, | |
| Even though the letter was never found. | |
| Maybe it will come tomorrow noon. | |
| She is askin' her fallen saint to | |
| Please return her straitlaced fighter | |
| Who don't know who she is, he don't know who she is. | |
| Where are you my sweet | |
| Desmond Doss, | |
| Have you softly gone to winter? | |
| Here I've brought you your two two dollar bills back. | |
| But I'm not waiting for sweet | |
| Eliza. She can have her water colors back, | |
| I found them on last | |
| December eve. | |
| You look strangely quite so familiar, | |
| The way you talk of suppertime but | |
| I don't know who she is, | |
| Don't know who she is. | |
| And you, you bring this beloved stranger. | |
| At the foot of this pile on | |
| Gideon's bed, | |
| She gave me a needlepoint motorbike. | |
| So go and take this to sweet | |
| Eliza, It was written and gently given to | |
| The courier pending arrival soon. | |
| Could you hold me just one more older | |
| Then I'll go as your fallen fighter | |
| Waiting at the door, can't see you any more? | |
| Here my dear a sweet | |
| Nostrovia, | |
| In a letter sent to | |
| December, | |
| I will wait for you to just humble me home. |
| zuo qu : State Radio | |
| Solarium malaria lookin' for the stereo. | |
| Wanted to save being excommunicated from the area. | |
| A it' s ok. | |
| In the city she said he cut a cord of wood, | |
| No bigger than thimble but still plenty good. | |
| A it' s ok. ' | |
| Cause it' s just a bump on a rash of robberies. | |
| On account of the world economy that' s makin' us sick. | |
| Go get the man who said he' s on to me, | |
| He thinks we' re in the kitchen with our sticks. | |
| But he don' t know that | |
| Paris is burnin' down, | |
| You' d never know it in this town. | |
| The governor' s walkin' around like he' s got tricks for you. | |
| Catch as Casius never become the killing machine. | |
| Run him over ruff shod ' til he bleeds army green out. | |
| So devout to the saint that lost his seat he never seen, | |
| Semiautomatic rosary out devout. ' | |
| Cause it' s just a bump on a rash of robberies. | |
| In a world too sad for | |
| Solomon we just sit. | |
| I' ll watch your economy, | |
| I' ll tell you when the police have it fixed. | |
| Paris is burnin' down, | |
| You' d never know it in this town. | |
| The governor' s walkin' around like he' s got tricks for you. | |
| So take a minute to laugh it over, | |
| We' ll make sure it' s all true, | |
| Just like she said, | |
| Behind the barn last | |
| December eve. | |
| Baby falls 40 feet caught by a street cleaner coming home from the union hall, | |
| He saw the fall. | |
| A it' s ok. | |
| JP Sousa found a radio, a radio. | |
| Sousa found a place to go, | |
| A radio in his head that said. | |
| It' s just a bump on a rash of robberies, | |
| An old sand lot anomaly that' s savin' this day. | |
| In a world too sad for sodomy | |
| We' re just sitting in the kitchen with our stray. | |
| But Paris is burnin' down, | |
| Governors are walkin' around, | |
| We' ll make sure that they do right by you. | |
| So you think you might go to | |
| Beatrice, | |
| Even though the letter was never found. | |
| Maybe it will come tomorrow noon. | |
| She is askin' her fallen saint to | |
| Please return her straitlaced fighter | |
| Who don' t know who she is, he don' t know who she is. | |
| Where are you my sweet | |
| Desmond Doss, | |
| Have you softly gone to winter? | |
| Here I' ve brought you your two two dollar bills back. | |
| But I' m not waiting for sweet | |
| Eliza. She can have her water colors back, | |
| I found them on last | |
| December eve. | |
| You look strangely quite so familiar, | |
| The way you talk of suppertime but | |
| I don' t know who she is, | |
| Don' t know who she is. | |
| And you, you bring this beloved stranger. | |
| At the foot of this pile on | |
| Gideon' s bed, | |
| She gave me a needlepoint motorbike. | |
| So go and take this to sweet | |
| Eliza, It was written and gently given to | |
| The courier pending arrival soon. | |
| Could you hold me just one more older | |
| Then I' ll go as your fallen fighter | |
| Waiting at the door, can' t see you any more? | |
| Here my dear a sweet | |
| Nostrovia, | |
| In a letter sent to | |
| December, | |
| I will wait for you to just humble me home. |
| zuò qǔ : State Radio | |
| Solarium malaria lookin' for the stereo. | |
| Wanted to save being excommunicated from the area. | |
| A it' s ok. | |
| In the city she said he cut a cord of wood, | |
| No bigger than thimble but still plenty good. | |
| A it' s ok. ' | |
| Cause it' s just a bump on a rash of robberies. | |
| On account of the world economy that' s makin' us sick. | |
| Go get the man who said he' s on to me, | |
| He thinks we' re in the kitchen with our sticks. | |
| But he don' t know that | |
| Paris is burnin' down, | |
| You' d never know it in this town. | |
| The governor' s walkin' around like he' s got tricks for you. | |
| Catch as Casius never become the killing machine. | |
| Run him over ruff shod ' til he bleeds army green out. | |
| So devout to the saint that lost his seat he never seen, | |
| Semiautomatic rosary out devout. ' | |
| Cause it' s just a bump on a rash of robberies. | |
| In a world too sad for | |
| Solomon we just sit. | |
| I' ll watch your economy, | |
| I' ll tell you when the police have it fixed. | |
| Paris is burnin' down, | |
| You' d never know it in this town. | |
| The governor' s walkin' around like he' s got tricks for you. | |
| So take a minute to laugh it over, | |
| We' ll make sure it' s all true, | |
| Just like she said, | |
| Behind the barn last | |
| December eve. | |
| Baby falls 40 feet caught by a street cleaner coming home from the union hall, | |
| He saw the fall. | |
| A it' s ok. | |
| JP Sousa found a radio, a radio. | |
| Sousa found a place to go, | |
| A radio in his head that said. | |
| It' s just a bump on a rash of robberies, | |
| An old sand lot anomaly that' s savin' this day. | |
| In a world too sad for sodomy | |
| We' re just sitting in the kitchen with our stray. | |
| But Paris is burnin' down, | |
| Governors are walkin' around, | |
| We' ll make sure that they do right by you. | |
| So you think you might go to | |
| Beatrice, | |
| Even though the letter was never found. | |
| Maybe it will come tomorrow noon. | |
| She is askin' her fallen saint to | |
| Please return her straitlaced fighter | |
| Who don' t know who she is, he don' t know who she is. | |
| Where are you my sweet | |
| Desmond Doss, | |
| Have you softly gone to winter? | |
| Here I' ve brought you your two two dollar bills back. | |
| But I' m not waiting for sweet | |
| Eliza. She can have her water colors back, | |
| I found them on last | |
| December eve. | |
| You look strangely quite so familiar, | |
| The way you talk of suppertime but | |
| I don' t know who she is, | |
| Don' t know who she is. | |
| And you, you bring this beloved stranger. | |
| At the foot of this pile on | |
| Gideon' s bed, | |
| She gave me a needlepoint motorbike. | |
| So go and take this to sweet | |
| Eliza, It was written and gently given to | |
| The courier pending arrival soon. | |
| Could you hold me just one more older | |
| Then I' ll go as your fallen fighter | |
| Waiting at the door, can' t see you any more? | |
| Here my dear a sweet | |
| Nostrovia, | |
| In a letter sent to | |
| December, | |
| I will wait for you to just humble me home. |