The Reporter Lyrics

The reporter doesn't sleep

Has to file, in a week

His most robust and no doubt controversial piece

For the daily

Well, at the budget meeting last

He'd set forth a proto head

"What is our city smoking?" And below it

"Three more dead"

He was amazing

Simply amazing

So amazing

Well, he's been cooking dusty coffee

In his dusk-lit kitchenette

When he squints, he sees the ghosts

Of all the sources he has met

A sovereign citizen named Rand

Returned from war with just one hand

Then that junkie queen Patrice

With her little code orange niece

For whom the state would name a law

At which the townies would guffaw

As the reporter slumps down

And beats his head against the wall

In November, at his folks', dodging every friendly joke

He admits he thinks his copy's getting hacky and he's failing

But lo! His uncle thinks he's cool

The noble product of j-school

A neoliberal hero for a generation of shaken babies

Oh, baby

Whoa, baby

Whoa, baby

Well, he's discerning with his Moleskines

He never picks one color twice

(Picks one color twice)

And he eats a modest dinner

Made of pinto beans and rice

(Pinto beans and rice)

They know him at the town hall

And they hate him there at night

(Hate him there at night)

And he wonders if he'll ever

Pop the cork on that new wine

(Cork on that new wine)

Or if he'll one day leave this suburb

To work the spin room for the Times

Where he'll prod those nasty senators

'til one shoves him out of line

It's the long game for a book deal

And a shot at the prime time

But until then, he sits alone and types