All the pool hall, hustling dough
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I'll beat the panzies and then I'll go
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out to the bar, to pick a fight
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main some redneck then hit the night
|
why am I always in a mood like this
|
I don't know, ain't no psychiatrist
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this nagging feeling, that I've got won't quit
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I feel no pain and I don't give a shit
|
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Left, right, fight-taste the floor
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two, four, move-out the door
|
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Music magazines with fags on the front
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they dress like women, their message is blunt
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they make their money, but they're doing it wrong
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kissing ass 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
|
(fuck off!)
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|
-----------------
|
Taste The Floor
|
| Razor |
