My fingers itch and so does my mind
I sit here with my guitar about to write music of some
Kind
The latest weeks of pasta has turned my belly into a
Balloon
And the lack of toilet-paper has made me look like a
Baboon
Maybe I should try to write a Mc Donald's-kind-of-song
Real easy to chew for everybody from Oslo to Hong Kong
The bills have to be paid and the dogs have to be fed
I dig and I dig for a profitable hookline in my head...
But when we think we got it
Our million dollar hit
We throw the chords around a bit
And no one understands it
It's kinda hard to admit
Our expected monster hit
Has turned into a pile of shit
And no one understands it
No one understands it...