In the city of Atlanta,
The simplest game of hide-and-seek,
Turns into murder
He asphyxiates underground,
He’s an unsolved mystery
In a city where no one has answers
Everyone knows southerners are slow.
We call it I-20 East and
Getting back to Conyers,
May just take all evening.
We don’t talk,
We barely breathe
In a sea of cars, no one speaks,
Sitting still gripping a leather bar
We have complicated the simple art of
Breathing by suffocating ourselves
And everyone knows southerners are slow.
