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!)