Memberships (Costco)

Lyrics

Flash the plastic.
No picture, don't need one.
Just the lines. The code.
Yeah. I'm in the club.

Sixty dollars once a year.
That's the tender. That's the key.
Not some black card made of metal, nah.
This here's for you and me.
It ain't about the status, not really.
It's about the math.
You pay the man at the door so you can walk the concrete path.
Just a barcode on a piece of blue.
They don't care about your face.
They just know you bought a ticket to this oversized place.

This is my membership.
My annual fee currency.
Get me a quarter-pound hot dog for a dollar fifty.
And a soda. Free refills.
This is my membership.
My Kirkland Signature creed.
Sixty dollars is the only coin I'll ever need.
Yeah, the only coin I'll ever need.

Walk past a mountain of toilet paper.
Thirty rolls to a pack.
See a wall of forty-dollar jeans, you ain't never taking 'em back.
The rotisserie chicken, five bucks, spinning under the heat.
A loss leader, that's what they call it. Man, that's a beautiful beat.
From the pallet of pickles to the gallon of gin,
It's a system, you see.
A beautiful, practical, glorious win.

This is my membership.
(Yeah)
My annual fee currency.
Get me a quarter-pound hot dog for a dollar fifty.
And a soda. Free refills.
This is my membership.
My Kirkland Signature creed.
Sixty dollars is the only coin I'll ever need.
Yeah, the only coin I'll ever need.

Back in '85, Jim Sinegal drew a line in the sand.
Said, "If you raise the price of the hot dog, I will kill you, man."
And they didn't. They never did.
It's a promise baked in a bun.
A middle finger to inflation 'til the shopping's done.
It's a handshake. A covenant.
A truth you can hold in your hand.
The most honest transaction in the whole damn land.

Yeah.
Roll it out to the car.
The sun hits the plastic wrap.
Smell the onions and the mustard.
No turning back.
A dollar fifty.
Since 1985.
Yeah.