[Intro: slow upright bass, ticking hi-hat, slick spy jazz atmosphere] [Echoing footsteps, distant lighter click] [Verse 1: Low, smooth, cynical male crooner] He doesn't wear the khaki, he doesn't sweat the heat. He's got a Liechtenstein account and expensive leather feet. He flies in on a Tuesday, with a briefcase full of lies, Selling maps of territories that don't exist under these skies. [Pre-Chorus: twangy surf guitar enters, building suspense] He talks about the weather, he talks about the reds, While moving little plastic pawns across a map of deads. He says it's just logistics, a geological survey... But there are shadows in the jungle that he ordered out to play. [Chorus: brass section swells, classic 60s spy thriller climax] Oh, beware the man in the linen suit! He doesn’t pull the trigger, but he always claims the loot. With his plausible deniability, and a smile so razor-thin, He’s betting on a game, boys, where you were never meant to win. Yeah, the agency has secrets that the agency must keep, While the dogs of war are dying in the mud and in the deep. [Verse 2: tempo drops, creeping, conspiratorial tone] He asks about the sapphires, the ones that glow so cold. He asks about the silver men, the rumors being told. "Just report the anomalies," he whispers through the smoke. But you look into his eyes and see... it isn't any joke. He knows about the tear in space, he knows about the glass. He’s just paying you to bleed for it, until the horrors pass. [Chorus: loud, dramatic spy jazz] Oh, beware the man in the linen suit! He doesn’t pull the trigger, but he always claims the loot. With his plausible deniability, and a smile so razor-thin, He’s betting on a game, boys, where you were never meant to win. [Outro: fading out, slow upright bass] No fingerprints. No official record. Just an envelope of cash... And a ghost. [Guitar twang rings out and fades]
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