No one is perfect Or expected to be Unless you happen to share a gene or two with this sort And as if their generation was completely right (the pattern of perceived perfection is a long lineage) They pass their judgment One generation to the next The gossip makes its way across state lines The tale of manipulation and corruption Bred within our borders Finds its place with mythical tales Of mobsters and cat burglars On cops
You work your magic Sweet-talking people out of money Not even Satanβs speech was so smooth Talent for memorizing numbers Credit card Pin But not your grandmotherβs Stuns all If she knew of your antics Pallbearers would have a heavy load But fear not Keeping secrets from the old and feeble Is our talent