Last time, it was past my prime
I didn't know when or where, how or what the fuck?
But I took my cue, had no clue
Threw my boot down the chute
In a minute, it was just a joke
Then my head went up in smoke
I was serious, complete design in my mind
Had no track to roll back
Last time, it was wicked clear
The scapegoat sun on the rise
Scrapin' the stars from God's ass
And lookin' like a janitor wrapped in fur
And when the blues shot fierce
And pierced their ears
They grabbed their beers
And disappeared into a vacuum
When you're down with the high
Fingers in their thighs
And ride, sucka, ride
Last time, it was past my prime
I didn't know when or where or what the fuck
But I took my cue, had no clue
And through my boot down the chute
For a minute, it was just a joke
And then my head went up in smoke
It was serious, complete design in my mind
Had no track to roll back to back
Fuckin up with the good stuff, keep my hands so tan
Fuckin up with the good stuff, keep my hands so tan
Good stuff! Fuckin up with the good stuff
Keep my hands so tan

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