All the pool hall, hustling dough
I'll beat the panzies and then I'll go
out to the bar, to pick a fight
main some
redneck then hit the night
why am I always in a mood like this
I don't know, ain't no psychiatrist
this nagging feeling, that
I've got won't quit
I feel no pain and I don't give a s**t
Left, right, fight-taste the floor
two, four, move-out the
door
Music magazines with fags on the front
they dress like women, their message is blunt
they make their money, but they're
doing it wrong
kissing a*s and writing radio songs
bying their records and seeing their shows
the general public likes their
panty hose
I'm not as younged as I used to be
but I'll still be thrashing at a hundred and three
(you'll see)
but they think
I'm psycho, they think I'm deranged
I wear my leather, but I'm not that strange
I walk the streets but I hate what I see
like a
book by it's cover, they're judging me
(f**k off!)
