I Hate The Beatles

Now I hate "Eight Days A Week" Honestly, it makes me sick To think of you and her asleep My childhood song playing on repeat And they would say your bird can sing Go ahead and cut the wings And from a cage, you're listening My father's name is a buried memory So don't mind me If I'm throwing stones at your door Don't blame me For getting so hurt with something so small No, don't take it personal, 'cause it's personal You stole Lucy's diamond rings Thought you said that you played clean And honestly, I've heard some things that make me doubt all your reasoning So don't mind me If I'm throwing stones at your door Don't blame me For getting so hurt with something so small No, don't take it personal, 'cause it's personal No, don't take it personal, 'cause it's personal