When the waitress walked by; She must have cuaght his eye; And at that moment he was mine; A little slight of hand and I had poisoned his bowl of Neopolitan; What else can I say man? Enjoy your ice-cream; Murder is such an ugly word so I'll use another if you so prefer; Me? I like to call it art and art is its own reward; Just ask Burt Ward, years of living in the shadow of the bat; But we'll come back to that; Right now let's roll this memo out to the big boss for the next time you think I'm going soft; send some punk to try to knock me off; here's a reminder you fucking hind-grinder; with a cherry on top;
That I never lost a step; message to Marcel;
in my paraphsychology; the ghosts they only visit me; mother it's no bother there's an angel on the shoulder and a demon upon the other; the tie always goes to the runner; ten quatloons on the newcomer; they always seem to remember that art is its own reward; yeah just ask Burt Ward; tell me he never felt like capping anybody; half a lifetime spent living in the shadow of the bat; like that has got to take its toll on you; take control of you; until one day all you have left to show; is the only thing for sure you've ever known; the art of an obedient carefully connected rogue;
That I never lost a step; message to Marcel; And I never rubbed the bat; message to Marcel
