They never tell you what you’re in for
or for how long
or when you’re gonna get out
or even where you are.
It’s all really a big mystery, right?

Not this time.
They were pretty up front that I was in for littering,
that it was going to be a lifetime sentence,
and that they weren’t fucking around anymore.

“If you want any time off,” Officer Junior said,
“we might be able to work something out.”
“Something other than a lifetime for littering?” I suggested,
“Yeah, I might be willing to consider fielding a deal.”
“Good,” said Junior. “Let’s talk.”
And talk we did.

Junior, the senior officer on a racketeering case on the Western Eastie Boys,
Laid it out for me:
Turn state’s evidence and I could be cleared in a couple of hours.
Problem: I only knew a couple Southern Eastie Boys
– not anyone from the West.
I wouldn’t be able to do Junior any good.
But he didn’t have to know that.
“So do we sign anything, or do I just get to work
to get you the evidence on the guys?”
“You can’t just tell us what you got?”
“I got the goods in a stash back at my crib at Succotash Lane.”
“We’ll pick it up for you,” Junior said.
“You have some cops pick it up, you’ll be dead in ten minutes.
I’ll pick it up and bring it back here.”
“It’s the only way?” asked Junior.
I smiled my sleaziest. “Trust me.”

So I’m out again, ready to litter some more,
but knowing that if I step out of line anywhere, anyhow,
Junior’ll just pick me up again.
I know that every two-bit copper’s got their eyes out for me
so if anything goes wrong, I’ll be screwed tighter
than a bulb too dim to get lit.

I may be mixing my metaphors here,
but you get the drift.
I can’t get in trouble again.
You never can tell
the trouble I’m in
or how I can get out of it.