The powder-blue case I got him for his birthday
I drew a wizard on it, we were 19 and I loved him
In a fit of rage, he smashed it through my windshield
He jumped out of the window and bolted through the
Litchfield midnight
The fog was swallowing him
I ran for hours, sleeping 'millionaire atrocities'
"Girl, you're the problem
Our son's extraordinary
We gave him everything"
And the toothpaste has his name printed on it
He squeezes from the bottom
Bahamas: they got drunk
Her silence was golden
He took without asking
Floridian peach king
He swam in a trust fund
I waited for hours
Took me without telling
Connecticut fish scale
"Sorry girlie
I have to drop this show
Super-last minute
Because of personal problems
(And that problem is you)"
And the t-shirt says to kill your local Donald
They don't mean it when he's got that good shit
He's got that big stack, he's got that good shit
Connecticut fish scale, he's got that basement
Connecticut fish scale, he's got that good shit
Connecticut
There's always a knockout, but never an answer
There's always a scandal, but never an answer
There's always a hit list
There's always a set list
There's always a mosh pit