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 shvit 



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 

(fucck off!)