Feed Yourself - Rheostatics

A cage of turtles, a cone of hemp

Was how he reeked, what he was smoking

An «A» that’s circled on knees that bent

Behind the trees, behind the woods

«I shouldn’t have taken that pretty black hit

It wouldn’t have mattered 'cause the band was shit

I spent the night retching in a rolling stream

Am I drunk or did I hear a scream?»

Meanwhile, the triple sport chip off the block

He had an urge: a weird feeling

It was a pretty good night for a walk in the woods

By the ravine, along the trail

They probably beat him up when he was young

Or locked him outdoors for sucking his thumb

They dressed him well, educated him clean

Must have taken his heart when they removed his spleen

I was scared, but I was so far from it

They called in the cops and they screamed «Red Level!»

The killer boy’s like a wannabe punk

One dead girl in a submarined trunk

Ah, what’s the use in crying? I’m armed

I know temp work sucks, and a life it is not

But it’s a job. Hell, it’s a living

«For a sweet tomato, for such a party girl

Is what I am. (So party on!)

Like a box a chocolates and a Beatles song

These are the things you can always count on:

Like the moon, it’s face, a wide-open space

I swear I it’s where I go when he gets on my case.»

But one minute you’re here, and the next you’re not

Then you’re a dot on a blotter

The cops caught wind, they cashed her in

They found the boy. He said he tried to save her

But they questioned him up and down with a stick

They traced his blood and found his sweat in her spit

So they locked him in a cell with four grey walls

«We got one dead girl, but the kid won’t crow!»

When I was young I thought that things were good and fair they pulled my hair

they pushed me in they forced me down city of sleep city of sheep

The best boy triple sport killer is calm

Carving the bird. He loads the plates

Outside in the street a vigil of girls

Sing songs and hold candles

He loves his mom and he loves his own bed

He loves the things that Jesus said

«If you can’t be pure, she might as well be dead.»

He hears a voice through a hole in his head

But suburban sharks, they love their blood in the parks

They want their peace. They want their druthers

We’ve gotta be safe from all the junkies who rape

And all the blacks and single mothers

Those welfare-types and those punks will run

They’ll find a rank place with the immigrant scum

A girl was murdered, a boy was hung

That was our first summer that we owned a gun

In a black or white neighborhood, don’t walk!

Feed yourself. Feed your children