Crooks And Crimescenes Lyrics & Chords By Spit Syndicate

(Verse 1 – Jimmy Nice)
The crooks are back with nothing but a green light,
Blame it on the three night benders and the cheap flights,
The puff, pass out and the re-light,
Blame it on broads and ball sports, we them Eastside princes,
No prints are left at the scene, we split the cash back at the pad 'n get high as my rent is,
While I was two timing on an island with a princess, you were tool timing hiding behind your fences,
But even though we burnt the candle at the twin ends,
We still made time to put the flame to wax, ya get it?
I did photography at uni, snapped a couple chicks like a bachelor and then got my bachelor in it,
Adit, hit em with everything we've got man!
I had to move out of the house and get back to business,
I met a lad that hit the trains with us years back, he said hate the singsongs other than that we dig it.
Like where's your writtens at jimmy gimme raw shit,
That leave in a minute bag another broad shit,
That all summer long strum another chord shit,
All aboard we'll be gone in a couple of minutes,
And isn't it funny that we ain't even in it for money still we get paid of the shit that we coin
Roll a j baby this is the joint, the return, burn one down for ya Sydney boys. I get up!

(Chorus)
Everybody move,
The whole place surrounded,
We ain't coming out, but we got our hands up,
See we've come too far to turn back now,
We shut it down, all cities stand up,
Sometimes the road don't rise to meet us,
And the wind ain't always at our backs,
But we keep our hands clean, No prints at the scene,
Still running but we cover our tracks,
One Dayers we're back, like crooks and crime scenes.

(Verse 2 – Nick Lupi)
They said: where you been loop, when you coming with the sophomore,
First shit was cool, we dug it but we want more,
Tell 'em we're busy and we're in it for the long haul,
But the truth is we blow our whole budget on tour,
Blow it on some kush, blow it out then once more,
Blow it on some blow with some mind blowing young broads,
I got the golden tonsils, fuck John Laws,
Bartender bringing the bottle back like an encore,
..Clap clap applauding, we your compares,
Trying to break the chains off like Con Air,
Is this thing on? Yeah, yeah, we on air,
A gentleman, I still throw game like Cronje,
Still keep a healthy distrust,
For the laws they write to sit above,
Enough's never enough,
See I trust politicians bout as much,
As I trust myself with a brunette who doesn't give a fuck,
As much as I trust my man Jimmy with some paint,
Solo with some bud, or Diddy with a break,
And me, well I've never been fitted for a cape,
But still they hold me down in every city that I stay,
We back for the riders,
The flat liners,
Black light the room, homie line 'em up,
I got the hood with me friar tuck,
The most pious of I-dub messiahs, light it up, I get up.