ONE two THREE four

ONE two THREE four

Don’t you play that song again –
Really oughta be so funky,
Shame the drummer just ain’t spunky –
Plodding, stomping, session flunky,
Pissed-up, coked-up, beat-seat monkey.
He don’t get above a stroll,
He don’t got no rock and roll,
Don’t got rhythm, don’t got soul,
Don’t got mojo – goddam troll !
Stick them drumsticks, stick them drumsticks,
Stick ‘em up his glory-hole.
Thrash and prang with each kerrang,
He thumps them stumps with crash and bang,
And so from rock to plastic pop,
Your four-on-four will dick and dick and never stop,
And still the beat goes on.

So don’t you play that song again –
Backbeat’s back is broken, smashed up,
Merchandising sell-outs cashed-up,
Doped-out, hashed-up, secret stashed-up,
Shagged-out, lashed-up, nasty rashed-up,
Only beats in tedium,
Parties like a lady bum,
Groupies strictly medium,
Rocking strictly stadium.
Stick them cymbals, stick them cymbals,
Right up his palladium.
He pounds each skin with shovels in,
His adequate won’t quit this din,
And so from dude to burned-out pock,
Your four-on-four will suck and suck and never rock.
And still the beat goes on.