There is a sound
|
they don't want you to own
|
arrest every word
|
that escapes from your throat
|
They hand you the world's smallest microphone
|
It's still too loud and you're asked to go home
|
|
She can stay as long as she swears
|
that when she breathes it will be
|
her own air
|
she'll state her case and take up space
|
and that suffocates-
|
The professional
|
|
there is a sound that they want
|
you to hear
|
to drown out the voice
|
that plays in your ear
|
they hand you the world's biggest razor blade
|
an amateur bleeds
|
but she hardly gets paid
|
|
She can be mad but they'll let her know
|
the scorched earth
|
allows nothing to grow
|
and she'll be blamed but feel no shame
|
cuz she'll have stopped-
|
the professional
|
|
-----------------
|
The Professional
|
| Sleater-Kinney |
