Eddie Blackbird, Eddie Blackbird, Eddie Blackbird, that’s the Indian’s name
Out in South Dakota, he stole a gold Range Rover and he drove it over, the empty plains
While Apache pilots hunt the River Tigress in the laughing silence of the desert night
And the price of cocaine, on a favourite ball game I read it all baby in the New York Times.
A pervert from Jersey with a thirty-thirty, found them girls rehearsing in a ballet school
And when he bust in and point his musket he turned their lilly white muslin into bright red blooms
So as I read it here, on a coffee street pier
You know I can’t help but hear them buildings fall
And the way they came down, and way they jumped out,
there’s no baseball glove in town
That’s gonna catch them all.
So every New Year, we come to Times Square and we all howl there when the big ball drops.
So don’t trust your junk mail, don’t touch the third rail, and baby don’t’ you dare hail the King of pop.
Cos the day they found him and brought his body in, the things that Doctor did was enough to strike you blind.
So me and my Lilly white lover, oh and all my brothers, never make the cover of the New York Times