Frank-Part 1

# A Passion for Crime **[Intro — sparse piano, distant metallic percussion]** A crime of passion, a passion for crime. That's how he remembered it when he still had the time. Six months behind him, six months to go— But freedom was coming and he knew where he'd go. **[Verse 1]** Tiny kettle boiling, blue plastic cup, Custard creams for breakfast, little telly turned up. Teabags in a corner, coffee by the bed, Count another morning, another day dead. Keys outside the doorway, boots along the floor, Big John on the porridge, Frank on eggs once more. Ten if no one wants them, that's the way things run. Five months, twenty-seven days— Almost done. **[Pre-Chorus]** But every night when the lights went low, There was only one place his mind would go. Not his little flat. Not the streets outside. Something he'd left where the old mill died. **[Chorus]** A crime of passion, a passion for crime, Something waiting patiently outside of time. Behind rusted doors, beneath a broken sky, He'd left a piece of something there he couldn't leave behind. A crime of passion, a passion for crime. He'd counted every hour. He'd counted every night. And when they opened up the gates, Frank knew exactly where he'd go. **[Instrumental — prison sounds become rhythm: keys, doors, footsteps]** **[Verse 2]** Gerry said, "I'll pick you up." Frank said, "Don't waste your day. They'll tell you when you're leaving but never when you'll get away." He left Big John his paperbacks, the coffee and the tea, Pulled the guitar from beneath the bed— Everything he needed to be free. Fifty-two quid inside his wallet, bank cards, watch and phone. Twenty minutes waiting... Then suddenly— "Go home." The door closed behind him. Fresh air filled his lungs. For the first time in six months there were no locks, No bells, No one saying when the day begun. But Frank wasn't going home. **[Chorus — heavier]** A crime of passion, a passion for crime, Something had been calling him for all this time. Through concrete walls, through sleepless nights, Through every fucking morning under fluorescent lights. A crime of passion, a passion for crime. Freedom meant one thing to him— To see it one more time. To see it one more time. To see it one more time.