You Can't Ask Me To

I Don't Think Anybody Is Anybody Else's Moral Compass.

I Shot A Vein In My Neck And Coughed Up A Quaalude.

I'd Breed A Little Liberal Army In The Wood, Just Like These Redneck Lunatics I See At The Local Bar With Their Tribe Of Mutant Inbred Piglets.

The Music Is All. People Should Die For It. People Are Dying For Everything Else, So Why Not The Music?

The Sickness Of The Mother Runs On Through The Girl, Leaving Her Small And Helpless. Liquor Flies Through Her Brain With The Force Of A Gun, Leaving Her Running In Circles.