He turns the TV high,
The walls are paper thin,
He hopes the neighbor folks aren't listening,
He's killed his wife with words,
Confident it's private rage, when up goes the curtain and he's on the stage.
He's on the stage, yeah,
God sees it all,
He's on the stage, yeah,
He has total recall,
It is an art, yeah, hiding murder in your heart.
The show is over, he pours himself a drink,
Best to forget about it, put a record on the stereo and try not to think,
And the record plays, "This is your life, you beat your wife,"
We'll spare the gory details and simply say...
Recording artist, yeah,
God hears it all,
Recording artist, yeah,
He has total recall,
Your sneaky moves are right here in the grooves.
He puts his car in gear, got to get outta here,
Going somewhere far away, (going somewhere far away)
But through the headlight beam he sees a billboard scene,
His fight last night is on display.
You're on display, yeah, (yeah, he's on stage)
He sees it all,
You're on display, yeah, (your private rage, yeah, is on stage)
He has total recall,
You're on display, yeah, (your private rage, yeah, is on stage)
He sees it all,
You're on display, yeah, (your private rage, yeah, is on stage)
He has total recall,
Your bloody crime is up there on the sign.
