Lost Angeles sometime on Wednesday late in the evening
It was one of many evenings in this downtown,
not much of the glitz of Rodeo Drive was left over
Rather, it seemed like the stress of the day that tormented the air
was considering which of two men it should suffocate first
One man was Bill A. Hemingway,
his friends called him Philosopher, the other man -- was me
Oh oh oh Crime Time
Oh oh oh Crime Time
Yeah yeah yeah kill to survive
Yeah yeah yeah run for your life
Oh oh oh Crime Time
Oh oh oh Crime Time
Yeah yeah yeah bullets and pain
Yeah yeah yeah Crime Time again
The Philosopher and I sat in his apartment,
close to the black-and-white occupied blocks near Central Avenue
There was not much out of the ordinary about Hemingway,
if you could manage to ignore his hands and his smile
His hand movements brought to mind a moth,
the day already seemed far too long, so that you almost wanted him to smile,
as long as you had a chance of living
Oh oh oh Crime Time …
Now Hemingway smiled,
Because his Gloria had sent me to him,
in order to clear up a very private problem.
I was the private problem, and his .38 Automatic
was aimed right at my solar plexus
Oh oh oh Crime Time …