As Mike steps out of the interview cell,
The grunts sign him to follow, they look like hell,
He's left his mark, they're recovering still,
Now Westridge wants to beef up the morning drill,

'Cause the new guy's whipped them like the white of an egg,
Without so much as a sprain in his leg,
They snarl as they slam back the door with a clang,
Oh, listen to the ballad of the Thorton Gang,

The locker room is a welcoming space,
As our hero shapes the stubble that's grown on his face,
He manscapes a little more than average guys,
To take full advantage of his desi eyes

And what they do to the opposite sex,
To make them feel what most men need muscles to flex,
His eyes on a lady, in her head the bells clang,
Oh, listen to the ballad of the Thorton Gang,

The hospital scrubs are thrown in a pile,
As his charcoal slacks are picked up with a smile,
He's thankful for inners and his favorite belt,
As he pats himself over feeling for a welt,

His best blue shirt feels perfectly pressed,
In shined leather oxfords his feet find rest,
His blackfaced Omega buckles snug with a clang,
Oh, visualize the hero of the Thorton Gang,

The vending machines are down to the right,
The CNN ticker says it's late at night,
Our hero's head turns to the one-eyed sheikh,
Who's out of the shadows with a statement to make,

The sheikh makes a vow that the U.S. will pay,
And al-Samad's fury will flare up some day,
In cold, measured tones, venom flows from his fang,
Oh, visualize the villain of the Thorton Gang,

Our hero laces up and looks right ahead,
As he wonders where next he intends to tread,
Cause he needs to unwind after that kind of night,
The gun range is forward and the stealth camp is right,

And cordite therapy more often than not
Feeds off frustrations when you're head's all hot,
His gun hand aches for its trick-shooting thang,
Oh, listen to the ballad of the Thorton Gang,

His hands are itching for some serious heft,
But cooler heads crop up and he glances left,
The gadget range seems to capture his eye,
But what new kit awaits this modern spy,

With the smartwatch and dictapen part of the norms,
Can spy tools still retain exotic forms,
On a range meant for things that go off with a bang,
Oh, listen to the ballad of the Thorton Gang,

His hands cool down with a towel that's damp,
As his mind one-eightys to ninjutsu camp,
He remembers his dodging of electric eyes,
And his noiseless jogging past the suited guys,

The stealth camp beckons like a walk in the park,
Like the instinct of a guy whose work's in the dark,
He relishes striking like a hidden night-fang,
Oh, listen to the ballad of the Thorton Gang,

His neck cricks back to face right before,
Where the firing range beckons from behind the door,
Some cordite therapy before the next step
Could be just the right thing for his agent prep,

To let off steam could just help vent his head,
And at least in a gallery no one gets dead,
But is he really itchin' for the gunslinger's pang?
Here deviates the ballad of the Thorton Gang.