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 sh** Left, right, fight-taste the floor two, four, move-out the door Music magazines with f*gs on the front they dress like women, their message is blunt they make their money, but they're doing it wrong kissing a** 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 (f** off!)