I don't mean to complain,
And I don't mean to shout,
But opportunity knocked, yea, it knocked me out!
Cigarette burns on the sheets,
Empty beer cans everywhere,
My mattress is on the floor and there's rats climbing the stairs.
Who but the dead needs some bed in a lonely room?
I've been up all night losing hope, blowing smoke at the moon.
The more we drink,
The more we tend to spill,
And if the music don't get to ya,
The madness surely will
In that house upon Oregon Hill.
The more I drink,
The more distinct I find the separation,
Between my mental state and my physical location.
In a porcelain fixture,
Jared pukes a mixture of liquor and some narcotic,
It's been a wild month he's been off his anti-psychotics.
A handful of hair from that hound that hara**ed you,
May clear you of headaches from beer, gra**, and painpills,
And early-birds eat the early worms that they k**,
But the early hunters make the early birds' wings still,
And late-worms do as they will...
In that house upon Oregon Hill.
All us wild-eyed boys,
Are faced with a choice,
Between decadence and discipline,
Vice is our virtue, man, madness is our medicine!
La da dot da daa da dot da,
La da da dot dotta da,
Ha ha ha ha HA! Ha! Hoo! Hoo!
Xanax and whiskey and h**n hit me,
While LSD, mushrooms, and ecstasy twist me,
And the road of excess led me to the palace of misery,
Where I tried to exchange all my ideals for imagery,
And I've never been so comfortably k**ed,
As in that house upon Oregon Hill.