Lyrics
Augusta, Georgia, late September
One Mr. Brown’s hot tempered
This man’s possessed, he’s restless
He’s armed and dangerous, drugged and reckless
Mrs. Brown, you got a lovely son
But he’s on the run on a shotgun mission
Listen here, cocksuckers
Motherfuckers, pay respect to my buildin'
It’s JB property, and it could be the one you get killed in Cops arrive, «What's this? What’s happening?
What’s what? Where’s the hot shot?»
James pushed his luck too far this time
His pick-up truck’s flat-out and flyin'
I wanna get into it, man, you know?
Not now, James, we’re busy!
Cops get excited and grin with glee
They got themselves a celebrity
Seven cars give chase
You’re in the clear, this is the race of the year
Faster, soul master!
They’re coming at you from all directions
Speed’s your protection, don’t look behind ya, 'til South Carolina
Cops spring a roadblock
He ain’t gonna stop, he’s gonna take a pop!
Fellas, I’m ready to get up and do my thing!
Not now, James, we’re busy!
Someone opens fire
The truck’s front tyres are blown out, get the hell out!
As six-mile skid trapped in a ditch, in the lap of the FBI
The secret service, the Russians, they’re all in this
They’re doing it to James like they did it to Elvis
I wanna get into it, man, you know?
Not now, James, we’re busy!
A good foot dance in a dusted trance
Breath tested, no chance, arrested
We’re gonna do a song…
Not now James, we’re busy!