I’m going back, back to the days I was a cold stack

Waiting to die on the shag rug

Waiting to dine at the supper club

Oh good God could I catch a break

Like that cool little line in the back drape

Clutching my head like a hammer

Wishing my hand was a hammer

And it goes

Quit your talking back, flapping them lips til your voice cracks

Placing that weight on your mother’s back

If she only knew what kind of man he was, thus

Crying good God from the bucket seat

The lion, the witch, and tomfoolery

Clutching my head like a hammer

Wishing my hand was a hammer

And it goes