Waitin’ on a savior out of gas.

The song’s not about the man at the podium. It’s about the people in the lot. The sixty-year-old who mortgaged the house. The red hats. The Rumble clips on loop. What happens when the band stops playing and nobody planned for that.

[Intro]

[Verse]

Steaks bust. Ties cut.

Couldn’t name a verse.

Daddy’s money. Daddy’s curse.

[Pre-Chorus]

Cameras stayed.

Somebody paid.

[Chorus]

Trumpli-cans, Trumpli-cans — forty-buck hats,

Lined up like red-capped rats.

Trumpli-cans, Trumpli-cans — on the grass,

Waitin’ on a savior out of gas.

[Verse]

Paid to hush, blamed the press.

Blamed the court, blamed the Left.

Walked off stage — I alone —

Rage-posted from his phone.

[Pre-Chorus]

Jury sat.

That was that.

[Chorus]

Trumpli-cans, Trumpli-cans — sixty years old,

Mortgaged the house on what they were told.

Trumpli-cans, Trumpli-cans — in the lot,

Arguin’ with the nephew. Forgot what.

[Bridge]

Dave’s got binders. Dave’s got proof.

Found the plot beneath the roof.

Printed pages, colored tabs —

Off the highway, past the prefabs.

[Verse]

Rumble’s on at ten again.

Three clips looped. Amen.

Book’s dog-eared, spine cracked —

Circled “win,” underlined “act.”

[Chorus]

Trumpli-cans, Trumpli-cans — there goes the band,

Fadin’ out. Nobody planned.

Trumpli-cans, Trumpli-cans — dust and debris.

Dirt on the hand. Nothing to see.

[Outro]

Words and music by Gene Scott. Copyright Alarice Multimedia, LLC.

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