The Decemberists

Sing, muse, of the passion of the pistol Sing, muse, of the warning by the whistle On a night so dark in the waning A dawn obscured by slate sky raining Five and twenty burglars by the reservoir A teenage lookout on the signal tower The mogul's daughter in hogtie The mogul fingers the wrong guy, all lies It was a perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect , the perfect, perfect crime It was a perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime It was a perfect crime The bagman's quaking at the fingers The hand-off glance a little lingers A well-dressed man in the crosshairs A shot rings out from somewhere upstairs It was a perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime It was a perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime It was the perfect crime It was like a ticker-tape parade When the plastique on the safe was blown away And we all gazed from eye to eye As we mouthed our silent goodbyes The valley's sleeping like a bastard It stinks of slumber and disaster Two words are spoken on the tap wire The agent's ploy finds a surefire backfire It was a perfect, perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime It was a perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime It was a perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime