POP WILL EAT ITSELF


Not Now James, We're Busy... Lyrics

Augusta, Georgia, late September, One Mr. Brown's hot tempeed, This man's possessed, he's restless, Armed and dangerous, drugged and reckless. Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely son But he's on the run on a shotgun mission Cops arrive, "What's this, what's happening, "Listen here cocksuckers, motherf**kers, pay respect to my building. It's JB property and it could be the one you get killed in." What's what, where's the hot shot?" James pressed his luck too far this time, His pick-up truck's flat out and flying. Cops get excited and grin with glee; "Faster Soul Master, they're coming at you from all directions, 7 cars give chase "You're in the clear...this is the race of the year!" They got themsevles a celebrity! "He's gonna take a pop!" Speed's your protection...Don't look behind you 'til south Carolina" Cops spring a roadblock "He ain't gonna stop!" Someone opens fire, the trucks front tyres are blown out "Get the hell out!"... As six mile skid, trapped in a ditch, In the lap of the FBI, the Secret Service, Like they did it to Elvis" The Russians, "they're all in this, they're doing it to James A "good-foot" dance in a dusted trance... Breath tested "No Chance!" Arrested! --------------------------------------------------------------------------

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Songwriter(s): Graham Charles Crabb

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