Intro (x2) Verse You took the baby to your mother's end of June and kissed her for the last time on the bed in your old room Then up to Northfield in the Fairmont just you two You always drove the getaway so you wouldn't have to shoot and after a couple jobs like clockwork where not one of you had slipped You were on your way back to Wisconsin, hit a deer and flipped Break* (x2) Verse Came to on the pavement, bleeding hard from the crash Calling to no one; he was as gone as the cash But there was the Ford flipped under an overpass, the baby seat strapped in the back The windshield smashed and red streaked, as an exploded dye pack and so you crawled in and you closed the door, and laid on what was now the floor and swore that you would figure out the rest when it was morning Break (x4)