Paint the picture, set the scene, It's two-thousand-and-nineteen
Richard, and a boy named Screech
The hands of fate, they touch and reach
Siblings buried, blood, it bleeds, etched in Richard's memories
Thoughts are muddled, troubled sleep, takes a time of absent leave
Hitting the bottle to soften the blow, when the war's with yourself, then there's nowhere to go
And his friends on the force, they don't call, they don't show
Go to therapy regularly, seem to plateau
And this po-po went loco in woe, so low that his mojo no more
No rebound, no yo-yo and so, the time it moves slo-mo, you see the
Case was never closed 'cause the motive was confusing
Orphan killed his sister, but his sister was removed when
The mother died in child birth, but dying womb life bring
The cycle of samsara, always was, quite amusing
Brother killed his sister but the records seem to show
The brother never met his sister, didn't even know
So the tragedy was a catastrophe, a fate fucked up
Richard's losing sleep while his whole family's tucked up
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