Vocals and guitar:
Piano instrument:
Guitar instrument:
A hill of beans
Well, it ain’t you, chief, that I’m
addicted to; it’s the drugs,
I think, that we used to do;
breaking up all the time
torturing myself,
mistaking His talent
with the mouths of Italy,
my drawing, says the
Florentine, looks like a pig
you, my love, are just a prig
so i guess, for a moment,
you still live here,
though I do my best
to become what I am—
well, sugar time blond, sick
as me; take one for the team
then drive like a bat out of
hell—propagate cross
country. Well every move
I ever made, in retrospect
seems freaking calculated
cold as a racehorse sniffing
tail—come down from
the mountain, it’s time
to set sail. Going to a foreign
shore—get blown up
for my trouble, section eight
what did you do to me, honey?
Nothing much, loco,
that’s just a little scrape
doing what you couldn’t do
accepting myself, and
freaking rejecting you
I’ll keep the talent, next,
that I stored in your chest
Italian PM with a heart
of gold; addicted to
influence—cream floats
to the top; don’t want
to use you—this
is just a pitstop. piss all
over your country,
that’s how I get off,
well you’re old as heck now,
too late for a baby,
thinking, then, that I’ll
drive you crazy,
so I stick to my guns
and a hill of beans