"Who's this guitar-playing sonsa bitch?", is a question common asked.
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On his head a bucket of chicken bones, on his face a plastic mask.
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He's the bastard son of a preachin' man, on the town he left a stain.
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They made him live in a chicken house to try to and hide the shame.
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He was born in a coop, raised in a cage. Children fear him, critics rage.
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He's half alive, he's half dead. Folks just call him Buckethead.
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Farmers would torment him as he snuggled with the hens.
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They'd hose him down with water, and steal his little friends.
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Now late at night he'd sneak off to the graveyard all alone,
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And play a soapbox guitar to the faces made of stone.
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Buckethead found his freedom at the age of 17,
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when he burned the chicked house down with a quart of gasoline.
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He did puppet shows on corners and bought a real guitar,
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And with the help of Colonel Sanders, he's bound to be a star.
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He was born in a coop, raised in a cage. Children fear him, critics rage.
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He's half alive, he's half dead. Folks just call him Buckethead.
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The Ballad of Buckethead
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| Primus |
