(Boom!) Shut the fuck up, shut your mouth and shut up One trait is back so it's time to get the fuck up (Boom!) What's the fuck's up 'Bardi 'bout to come up Baseball bat, yeah he gonna fuck my knees up Where the tracks at? Where's my money bro? I got my axe back I'm 'bout to kill you, yo Chop, chop, chop down both your knees Like some trees while you're screamin': Lombardi, please! (Bardi please, ba-ba-bardi please (Lombardi please) (Bardi please, ba-ba-bardi please) (Where the tracks at?) (Where's my money bro?) (Indie rock is dead, but I'm not) (But I'm not) (Bu-Bu-But I'm not) (But I'm not) Write the songs How hard could it be? Write the music This shit ain't easy Write the songs (how hard could it be?) I've gotta write the songs (write the songs) Can't think of shit, I don't know how to write I used this joke on the last album, right? I'm no Shakespeare, no Vonnegut I don't even know what a sonnet is Welcome to the slaughter house You can't even hide at your daughter's house You signed the contract with your blood They suck the rest if you give 'em a dud If you don't make him the fuckin' stacks With sufficient raps, with ten platinum tracks He's gonna come to your house with a baseball bat And break both of your motherfuckin' legs in half So you pray to the Lord to forgive your sins So you pray to the Lord to forgive your sins So you pray to the Lord to forgive your sins So you pray to the Lord to forgive your sins (Come on!) (One two three, motherfucker)