The Young Reporter

«Hands up!», he said
«If you move a little bit you’re dead»
I want the secret that you were about to get
Tonight they win
I’m in a cellar and I have to stay in
I’ll have to write a song
Whether it’s right or wrong
Here comes the young reporter
In his overcoat
I’m on the tape recorder
In his motorboat
Is he coming in time for me
Click clack — turn the key
They came back to transport me
I’ll get used to music mystery
Black car, dark street
Red light, high speed
Rope is tied around my hands and feet
Here comes the young reporter
In his overcoat
I’m on the tape recorder
In his motorboat
Is he coming in time for me
Too late, it’s done
I’m on a record and I’ll have to stay on
It’s on the playlist with a little luck it’s number one
This is the story about a writer of songs
You see the smoke is coming out of his lungs
He’ll have to write a song whether it’s right or wrong
Hands up!
Hands up!
Hands up!
Hands up!