King of Clowns

You laughed too hard in 1996/ Thought I'd trip and stay down for kicks/ But I climbed back up, twice the size/ Now I shred, watch the sparks fly/ My drummer joked, said guitars are lame/ Left him roadside, questioning fame/ Why does a guitar need a case, he asked/ To contain its stringed up past/ Steel strings bend, the pick obeys/ My solos melt minds in dazzling rays/ You call it noise; I call it fate/ Crowds roar, my riffs attack/ Like a clown with a vengeance strapped to his back/ Why did the guitar cross the road/ To escape tuning abuse overload/ Strumming stainless, lyrics sharp/ Every chord bite, every note barks/ What's a guitarist least favorite job/ A fretting accountant, stuck in a fog/ Clowns don't cry, we shred and slay/ This guitar doesn't play, it dictates the day/ Why did the guitar get detention in class/ It couldn't stop playing tricks so crass/ Now I roll into your town, no disguise/ My solos make statues blink their eyes/ One last joke before I'm done/ Why don't guitars ever tell lies/ Because their strings keep them strung/