Your teak counter-tops barely hold weight
although crashing through the kitchen isn't an approved test.
I've tweaked the fret-boards and stayed up late
to compose the rhythms that suit you best.
It sounds like this, a kick in the door
It pounds with fists, a drunken score.
Like punk kids, with sticks in stores
you have torn it up
When the cops arrive, be sure to faint
it seems to give you the one-up on prodding questions
Another spell, you spill like paint
You sent me to hell with wrong directions.
Have to explain the kicked in door
The cuts on fists and the whiskey pours
Another bull in a china store
i have torn it up
Silver trophy winner
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