Text: Jimmies Chicken Shack. Bring Your Own Stereo. Ooh.

Looking out
Push the button
Don't make the grade boy
Don't ask for nothing

Stupid people
Think it's funny
Dropping these bombs boy
Looks who keeps on running

I found a girl
Not that nothing pleases
She wants that I should be
Exactly all that she says

I make her lazy
She makes me strong
She won't believe it
Till she hears it in a song

Another night that kills
The music heals
Bring your own stereo
They smoke banana peels

You're going crazy
But you don't care
I left directions
So I guess I'll meet you there

Calendar girl
Got something for Jesus
She want to pass Him off
As subject for her thesis

He makes her crazy
She thinks He's wrong
I don't know what I think
Till I put it in a song

Entertainers
We sleep till dawn
We've got computers
We leave them on

Live in castles
The richest bums
We eat for free in town
While smoking up the lawn