They say they like it, but, now in the market it May not go well as it's too laid back. You need some oomph-papa, nothing like Frank Zappa And not New Wave they don't play that crap Try beating your head on a brick wall Hard like a stone Don't have time for the music They want the blood from a clone I hear a clock ticking I feel the nit-picking I almost quit kicking at the wall There seems a confusion, under the illusion That they know just what will suit you all Beating my head on a brick wall Hard like a stone Ain't got time for the music They want the blood from a clone There is no sense to it Pure pounds and pence to it They're so intense too makes me amazed Don't want no music but, they're making you sick with Some awful noises that may get played By beating their heads on a brick wall Hard like a stone Ain't no messing `round with music Give them the blood from a clone Where will it all lead us I thought we had freed us >From the mundane seems I'm wrong again Could be they lack roots, they're still wearing jack boots they're Marching somewhere in the pouring rain Beating my head on a brick wall Hard like a stone Don't have time for the music They want the blood from a clone.
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Copy to Clipboard: They say they like it, but, now in the market it May not go well as it's too laid back. You need some oomph-papa, nothing like Frank Zappa And not New Wave they don't play that crap Try beating your head on a brick wall Hard like a stone Don't have time for the music They want the blood from a clone I hear a clock ticking I feel the nit-picking I almost quit kicking at the wall There seems a confusion, under the illusion That they know just what will suit you all Beating my head on a brick wall Hard like a stone Ain't got time for the music They want the blood from a clone There is no sense to it Pure pounds and pence to it They're so intense too makes me amazed Don't want no music but, they're making you sick with Some awful noises that may get played By beating their heads on a brick wall Hard like a stone Ain't no messing `round with music Give them the blood from a clone Where will it all lead us I thought we had freed us >From the mundane seems I'm wrong again Could be they lack roots, they're still wearing jack boots they're Marching somewhere in the pouring rain Beating my head on a brick wall Hard like a stone Don't have time for the music They want the blood from a clone.
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