Now Your Messing With a Son of a Bitch

you crossed me that did it you insulted my intelligence Critics yet who are they really anyways ? you live behind four walls that close in it's too late you blew it my pride is on the floor lest I implore more but that of what a challenge to be free is a quest of time you gave me the middle finger just remember there's four fingers pointing right back at you have I bitten off far more then I could chew ? Now your messing with a son of a ***** give you another lousy dish you tend to sweep things underneath the rug no sense of remorse from me & no love you bit & devour with viscous fangs that bite dripping blood of side go run away & hide standing alone with a noose around my neck what the heck is this life for ? it's not known in a Studio 54 nor of that a Warhol piece of Campbell soup cans hopefully someday you will understand that you can't get away from sticking it to the man life is to short for losers like you sit back with your spaghetti with sauce & Ragu you got eyes of blackened hot wired stench ears that hear but you straddle the fence said you read your books in school but you haven't made a dent try to even the score lest I implore another place in time hence another door