And this guy comes up to me
His face red like a rose on a thorn bush
Like all the colours of a royal flush
And he's peeling off those dollar bills
Slapping them down
One hundred, two hundred
And I can see those fighter planes
And I can see those fighter planes
Across the mud huts as the children sleep
Through the alleys of a quiet city street
We take the staircase to the first floor
We turn the key and slowly unlock the door
As a man breathes deep into saxophone
And through the walls we hear the city groan
Outside is America
Outside is America
America