Trauma Cat - 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

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