Holy f**ing sh**! He wrote another f**ing song
Why does he keep on writing them when hope has long been gone?
He may not be Gaga, Miley, Jackson, or the King
But let me tell you why this bearded f** has got to sing
Twenty-four/seven, 3-6-5 days of the year
In his mind the music plays 'a blasting in his ears
A-B-C-D-E-F-G, the notes now play themselves
And on the staff, the notes they dance like bearded f**ing elves
It's just his process, how he makes himself/(sense of) this wreck
It's just his process. Send him a motherf**ing check
It's just his process, how he makes himself/(sense of) this wreck
It's just his process. Send him a motherf**ing check
He'll write a f**ing song for every dick that's ever lived
Pop, blues, rock, funk, dance, and trance—the man just wants to give
Now open up your ears to him, you silly f**ing sod
And blast his jams from noon till night so loud you'll wake up God
Early in the morn when normal folks are getting up
He's pounding keys and riding strings like monster f**ing truck
Eighth notes on his Cheerios and quarters in his tonic
He's regular like fiber man and sh**s a philharmonic
Twenty-four/seven, 3-6-5 days of the year
In his mind the music plays 'a blasting in his ears
A-B-C-D-E-F-G, the notes now play themselves
And on the staff, the notes they dance like bearded f**ing elves
Holy f**ing sh**! He wrote another f**ing song
Why does he keep on writing them when hope has long been gone?
He may not be Gaga, Miley, Jackson, or the King
But let me tell you why this bearded f** has got to sing
It's just his process, how he makes himself/(sense of) this wreck
It's just his process. Send him a motherf**ing check
It's just his process, how he makes himself/(sense of) this wreck
It's just his process. Send him a motherf**ing check