From the iron bars to the velvet cars.
Reality hits harder than the script.
Draped in all black like a phantom in the sun,
No shackles on the wrists, yeah the marathon's begun.
Seven-fifty for the night, New Mexico air,
From a cold steel bunk to a millionaire’s chair.
Limo at the curb, lawyers in the leather,
Fighting off the storm, tryna hold it all together.
Free as a bird, but the cage is still looming,
In the castle of shadows where the rumors are blooming.
He’s out of the pokey, he’s back in the palace,
Drinking down the truth from a poisoned chalice.
Out of the pokey, back in the palace.
Audio tapes don’t lie, or do they?
Kids said "No," now the lawyers gotta play.
Look at the mask on a West Wing face.
Prosecutors fuming, judge made the call,
Said he ain't the danger, let him leave the hall.
Melissa at the doorway, waving at the ghost,
Of a reputation burning from coast to coast.
The plot starts to thicken,
While the clock on the wall keeps on tick-tick-ticking.
But the credits haven't rolled yet.
Just keep the cameras rolling.
