[Intro: mournful strings, slow heavy breakbeat, spoken] Visitors, you have two hours. Quarters only. [Verse 1: low, steady, storytelling] I was eight, Mama ironed my collar in the dark Two hours up the highway till the razor wire starts Clear bag with nothing in it but a roll of quarters, tight Forty of 'em, ten dollars, I been rubbing 'em all night Shoes off at the scanner and the lady with the wand Stamp my hand with ink that only glows when the black light's on Room of plastic chairs and a wall of vending machines And my daddy in the khakis, looking smaller than he'd ever been He said, what you want, champ? I said, nothing, you pick So I fed the machine and he picked a honey bun, quick We split it on a napkin, played checkers, and he let me win Then the guard called time, and I counted fourteen days again [Hook: hoarse baritone, sung low] Roll of quarters in a see-through bag Ten dollars is all they let in Pick me something from the machine, son Till I can pick you up again [Verse 2: harder, teenage] Thirteen, I quit going, told my mama I was sick Spent the quarters at the arcade in the mall and didn't flinch Every other Sunday she would leave at six a.m. And every other Sunday I would act like I forgot him But a year in I went back, and he was gray around the ear He ain't ask me where I been, he said, damn, you got tall this year And he still picked the honey bun, and I still let him split it That's the only time I cried in there, and he acted like he missed it [Double-Time: the rules, flat and fast] No denim no hoodies no hats and no gum and no wallet no keys and no phones in the visiting room past the gate One hug at the start and one hug at the end and your hands on the table where the officer can see 'em at all times Sit on the side that is facing the desk and don't stand up when they count and don't you ever cry where any other dude can see it Every other Sunday for eleven years I learned the rules of that room better than my multiplication tables Eleven years of honey buns and checkers on a cracked table and Mama in the bathroom fixing her mascara every visit [Hook: hoarse baritone, sung low] Roll of quarters in a see-through bag Ten dollars is all they let in Pick me something from the machine, son Till I can pick you up again [Verse 3: slow, warm, the release] Nineteen, I drove up in my own car, a Civic, primer gray He walked out with eleven years in a paper sack that barely weighed Hugged him in the parking lot, no guard to count it down First stop was a Shell station on the edge of the next town Got a roll of quarters in my console, I keep it there Fed the machine, said, what you want? He said, you pick, I swear So I picked a honey bun, and we split it on the hood And my daddy cried at a vending machine, and it was good [Final Hook: baritone, strings swell] Roll of quarters in my console now Ten dollars, and nobody counting time Picked you something from the machine, Pop And I picked you up this time [Outro: strings, breakbeat fades, spoken] Quarters only. Not anymore.
0/500