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 *
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