Sitting on the horizon line listening to the radio.
Til the battery dies out, then boys impress the girls with all the songs they know.
Gotta know em by heart, no unsure strums, because these gals are smart, they'll see right through 'em.
Play your chords right and you might get to walk one home.
A steamy night and we all know it's getting late, the boys are silent.
But I'm a child of a self-made man, and I'm not the kind to wait.
So New York Tori gets my move and we're turn to sneaks, tounge tied all the way down Whipple Street.

Like double agents down North Side pavements, kissing away all "Soviet secrets", and I wipe the flies from her hair and say "Brooklyn girl, won't you come home with me?"

She says "Why go inside?" We've got the darkness, Chicago and the whole damn world, and best of all we've got all night. A branch-held mattress, a treetop vigil to a wonderful indifference and a funeral for our collective sense.

The beauty, immaculate contraception! Hickeys on my collarbone, we're rushed, we're grasping, god help us, we're only naked, but stark raving ****ing mad!

So hey, little girl, do you wanna get out? I know a close beach, but the rest aren't allowed, the sand's just for us and I don't need girls in stereo.

No, I don't need girls in stereo.
No, I don't need girls in stereo.
No, I don't need girls in stereo.