For his pleasure he sits sweating
The ghost of a man who now haunts himself
Hear the steady tick of time like a levee
Holding in his troubled mind
He was proud he was strong
Now he's counting back the days to what went wrong
A pipe a dream a fearful scream
All these FBI agents hiding in your pine trees

Lord it is tragic

Burning faster than a fuse lit from both ends
He spirals down
At the ready with a list of excuses
Most of his friends they don't know him now
The family's tired and confused
He's still trying to make an offer they can't refuse
Is he clean is he free
Are those FBI agents still hiding in his pine trees?

Lord it is tragic

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