New York Times

Hetti Blackbird, Hetti Blackbird, Hetti Blackbird, that's the Indian's name
Out in South Dakota, he stole a gold Range Rover and he drove it all over the empty plains
While Apache pilots haunt the River Tigress in the laughing silence of the desert night
& 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 point his musket he turned lilly white muslin into bright red bloom
As I read it here on the coffee street pier 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. Don't trust your junk mail, don't touch the third rail, and baby don't' you dare have 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 make my Lilly white lover, oh and oh my brother, never make the cover of the New York Times