[Intro: loud tape recorder click, slow haunting acoustic guitar] [Verse 1: Clean, exhausted female vocal, singing softly] Midnight in the Memling, the ceiling fan is slow. Got a glass of stale gin, and nowhere left to go. The typewriter is heavy, the ribbons are bled dry, Trying to find the truth beneath a post-colonial sky. They told me it was rebels, they told me it was reds... But I’ve seen the empty faces of the boys who leave their beds. [Chorus: melodic singing, joined by a distant ghostly vocal harmony] Oh, there are ghosts in the ledger, shadows on the scale. Selling little blue stones down a phantom trail. The men in the linen suits are drinking at the bar, While the silver-eyed assassins are tracking from afar. Write it down, tear it up, burn it in the sink... This country’s slipping over the edge, closer than you think. [Verse 2: quieter, more intimate, almost whispering] I interviewed a merc today, came back from the east. He was shaking like a leaf, said he didn't fear the beast... Said he feared the quiet. The way the jungle froze. The way the magic left them, from their heads down to their toes. I asked him 'bout the agency, he just looked away. Said: "Some debts are paid in copper... some, you just can't pay." [Bridge: Spoken Word, very close-mic, raw tape distortion] I found a shipping manifest. A dummy corp in Liechtenstein. They're not just moving weapons. They're moving... anomalies. If this tape makes it to London... don't trust the embassy. [Chorus: full emotional delivery, heavy acoustic strumming] Oh, there are ghosts in the ledger, shadows on the scale. Selling little blue stones down a phantom trail. The men in the linen suits are drinking at the bar, While the silver-eyed assassins are tracking from afar. Write it down, tear it up, burn it in the sink... This country’s slipping over the edge, closer than you think. [Outro: slow acoustic picking] Room 404. Signing off. Before the shadows knock. [Loud tape recorder click. Heavy static fading to silence]
