On the horn one ev'nin' when the moon doesn't shine,
I pick up my pistol as I talk on the line.
I load sixteen rounds in that magazine,
As the cop boss led, express to crime scene.

I have sixteen rounds, and what do I get?
A little way bolder, peace-keeper, I'm set.
Dispatcher, won't you call me, 'cause I can go;
I know my role is to calm and restore.

I can see him comin' with a steppin' stride,
His weapon's been hidden; he cocks that arm wide.
My pistol's firin', that brother does reel;
If the first one don't get him, then the last one will.

I fire sixteen rounds, and what do I get?
A brother who's colder, not sleepin', I bet.
Ain't breathin' after fallin'; his knife slants low.
I know his soul flew to company o'er.

A forlorn cold ev'nin', it is drizzlin' rain.
Rightin' gang trouble is my single aim.
I was raised in Chicago while Sen. Obama's lyin';
He was a high-toned showman who could talk so fine.

(I'm sorry about that. It matched the original lyrics so well.)

I'd fired sixteen rounds, and what did I get?
Another year older. (I hoped they'd forget.)
Grand jury didn't call me, 'cause they worked slow.
Find no parole; truth has come to news' fore.

Some creep'll slay a man with blade or slug thuds.
News sure can fade out if hustlin' studs,
Hustlin' studs with skin tan tone.
Their kind don't speak or attack what's wrong.

I've got sixty years, a lot through life yet,
To smother and smolder or weep with regret.
Saint Peter, don't you call me till I can show
My snow-like soul to the trumpeting corps.

La - mi - do - la, mi - fa - so - la. (woodwind epitaph)