The strings on this guitar are old.
Might as well throw the whole thing away.
We get these fucking things free, anyway.

My axe can't get loud enough!
I'll bash this fucking thing around.
Stomp up and down 'til it coats the ground.

Wait a second here - I want this one in cherry red.
How the fuck do you expect God's gift to women to wail a riff
when all he's left to use is something with a colour scheme
that doesn't lend itself to making me look like a guitar god?!

Give me more dry ice!
We want the best smoke show!

In our rider, it says we get the sunlamps and some zinc.
And those tin foil thingies to put around our handsome faces.
And cherry blossoms, a chest of those rockaberry coolers.
This tray of pâté de fois gras is the worst shit I think I've ever had.

I'm on my fuckin' knees, pullin' off my hammer-ons
when much to my dismay, a couple spots go out on me.
So I'm in there in the dark, fuckin' clueless as to where I am
and end up walking in the path of a flashpot that blasts in my face.

Get the gauze! Get the gauze!
He's a guitar mummy!

The drummer's got no riser and he's starting to get huffy.
The laser beams are working but they're not highlighting us.
The fucking teleprompter's stuck and it's fucking us all over
'cause now I'm repeating the phrase "black reality" till the cows come home!