Taste the Floor

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!)