He said he'd be here at seven

The clock just hit 7:22

It's too cold outside

To wait for my ride

Watching mama try out a new doo (Bruins)



He said he'd be here at seven

But it just hit 7:35 (already?)

Here in Brockton, Mass.,

I got my thumb in my ass

Mama's combing up a big beehive (Celtics)



Where the fuck is he?

Where the fuck is he?



The bitch doesn't even bother calling

Even though it's 7:44 (I fell asleep, pally)

I'm feeling kinda antsy

Mama's getting fancy

Slicking back a wet pompadour (Red Sox)



He said he'd be here at seven

It's closing in on 8:01 (Trimmin' the ‘stache, kid)

Me lookin' like a sap

In a wool knit cap

Mama's next move is a bun (fuckin' Patriots)



Where the fuck is he? (My pants are still in the dryer, dude)

Where the fuck is he? (I couldn't find my fuckin' snowboots, pal)

I wish I had a car (Huge, huge hangover)

Oh, no (Massive hailstorm, massive hailstorm, massive)



That stupid little punk

He's probably fuckin' drunk

I bet he drank a case

Wanna pop him in the face right now

Mama's eyebrow



Wicked good

Wicked good (Oh, GOD)

Wicked good

Wicked good (Fuck yeah)

Wicked good

Wicked good (Pisser?)



Well my friend is still a no-show

And I'm getting' fucking pissed (Why?)

‘Cause I could've gone with Charlie

In the side of his Harley

Mama's on the phone with a stylist (Fuck Charlie!)



So I guess I ain't going out tonight

‘Cause the digits say 12:09 (Shit-faced)

But call the operator

‘Cause one perm later

Mama's hair sure do look fine (Heffenreffer!!!)



Where the fuck