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!)