Verse 1 (Spoken-word baritone, dripping with cynical Southern drawl) Well, look at the big man, checking his gold-plated watch, Tucking in his shirt, making sure the crease is top-notch. Three A.M. used to be our prime time, our neon-lit glory, But now you’re out here writing a whole different story. I heard you’re driving for Carl now—yeah, Carl with the khaki pants, The kind of guy who does a little celebratory midday dance. You’re hauling freight while the sun is high and the birds all sing, Missing out on the grease, the grime, and the second-shift sting. Honestly, Roland, it’s a special kind of "fuck-ass" move, To find a rhythm with the brothers then go and break the groove. Pre-Chorus (Female gospel backing vocals: Ooh, he’s gone and done it now...) You’re chasing the light like a moth to a flame, But we’re back here in the shadows just cursing your name. Carl’s giving you a thumbs up, a pat on the back, While we’re unloading the heavy shit and picking up the slack. Chorus (Heavy breakbeat, deep pulsating bass, soulful harmonica) Oh, Roland, you fuck-ass, you’re chasing the dawn, Left the kings of the midnight with a stretch and a yawn. Trading the moon for a "Good morning, sunshine" vibe, Betraying the code of the second-shift tribe. Once you go first, yeah, you’re dead to the night, Bathed in that sickly, pale-yellow light. Driving for Carl, wearing a smile so fake, While we’re back here wide awake for the brotherhood’s sake. Verse 2 (Music gets grittier, industrial acid house synths pulsing) I saw your rig in the distance, shining like a new dime, While I was rubbing the sleep from my eyes, doing my time. You probably have lunch at noon—actual lunch, not a cold slice, Is the air-conditioned office life really that nice? Carl probably asks about your weekend, asks about your cat, We used to talk about engines and where the "real" money’s at. Now you’re probably listening to Top 40 and morning talk shows, While we’re still deep in the belly where the heavy wind blows. It’s comical, really, seeing a legend turn into a "Sir," A midnight wolf turning into a morning-shift purr. Pre-Chorus (Female gospel backing vocals: He traded the dark for the day...) A little bit serious, a whole lot of "why?" You left us down here under a pitch-black sky. Carl’s got your schedule pinned to a bright white board, While your second-shift crown is just gathering dust on the floor. Chorus (Heavy breakbeat, deep pulsating bass, soulful harmonica) Oh, Roland, you fuck-ass, you’re chasing the dawn, Left the kings of the midnight with a stretch and a yawn. Trading the moon for a "Good morning, sunshine" vibe, Betraying the code of the second-shift tribe. Once you go first, yeah, you’re dead to the night, Bathed in that sickly, pale-yellow light. Driving for Carl, wearing a smile so fake, While we’re back here wide awake for the brotherhood’s sake. Bridge (The harmonica gets aggressive, almost laughing. Rhythmic handclaps.) Is the coffee better? Is the traffic worse? Does your soul feel heavy, or is it just your purse? You’re a "First Shift Specialist" now, that’s what they say, Which is just code for "The guy who got away." We’re half-laughing, half-pissed, watching your taillights fade, Into the safety of the early-bird parade. But don’t come crawling back when the sun gets too bright, There’s no room for a traitor in the middle of the night. Outro (Spoken-word baritone, accompanied by lo-fi vinyl crackle) Yeah... Carl’s boy. Hope those khakis don't chafe, Roland. (Sarcastic harmonica wail) First shift... where dreams go to be productive. Fuck-ass. (The trip-hop beat slows down, distorted and heavy, ending with the sound of a distant, lonely police siren.)
