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you took the baby to your mother's end of June& kissed her for the last timeon the bed in your old roomthen up to Northfield in the Fairmont just you twoyou always drove the getawayso you wouldn't have to shoot& after a couple jobs like clockworkwhere not one of you had slippedyou were on your way back to Wisconsinhit a deer & flippedcame to on the pavementbleeding hard from the crashcalling to no onehe was as gone as the cashbut there was the Ford flipped under an overpassthe baby seat strapped in the backthe windshield smashed & red streakedas an exploded dye pack& so you crawled in & you closed the door& laid on what was now the floor& swore that you would figure out the restwhen it was morning Aus Songtexte Mania