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The Perfect Crime #2 – The Decemberists
Sing, muse, of the passion of the pistol
Sing, muse, of the warning by the whistle
On a night so dark in the waning
A dawn obscured by slate-sky raining, oh oh
Five and twenty burglars by the reservoir
A teenage lookout on the signal tower
The mogul's daughter in hog-tie
The mogul fingers the wrong guy, all right
It was the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime
It was the perfect crime
The bagman's quaking at the fingers
The hand-off glance a little lingers
A well-dressed man in the crosshairs
A shot rings out from somewhere upstairs
It was the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime
It was the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime
It was the perfect crime
It was like a ticker-tape parade
When the plastique on the safe was blown away
And we all gaze from eye to eye
As we mouth our silent goodbyes
The valley's sleeping like a bastard
It stinks of slumber and disaster
Two words are spoken with tap-wire
The agent's ploy finds a sure-fire backfire
It was the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime
It was the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime
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