He's got a pinstripe suit and a black fedora.
He's got a jail tattoo, from his long-lost brother
He's got jet-black hair, just like his mother
He's got a shotgun fuse, don't you pull his trigger

Broke from jail without a gun
Public enemy number one
Killed a man on the run
On the lam, with his friends
Headed straight back to jail
Nowhere else for him to go daddy-o, daddy-o

He's gonna make his mark at a Vegas hotel
He rolls snake-eyes, Jack
He's gonna make his money

He's headin' west, on a killin' spree Down in L.A., you know the killin's free

(He was born on the 4th of July. When he spoke to you, Man, he stared you
straight in the eye. He's the kind of man, when he walked into the room, you
would feel it.The kind of man, when he walked in the room, it sounded like this)

He got a hundred years, and the electric chair
His final words were, "I don't care"