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 shit
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 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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