Hear me! HATE ME! Shave me! - 0%
Number Eight! *belch*
Fucking magnets, how do
they work?
It doesn't attract me, it repels
A science of uninterest
And bloody poetic farts
The emptiness of the mind
Is a challenge to the listener
Must… not… rewind…
Pretentiousness beyond comfort
An infantile boring beat poem
Loss of interest and will to live
To tell you the truth, it's meaninglessness
That causes you to slash open
You belly and spill your guts on the floor
I can't understand it, YOU can't understand it
The pope does not understand it
Hetfield never did understand it
Ulrich never had a chance to begin to understand it
Even assuming it actually meant something and he could read
Unquestioning worship of "art" is loss
Of reason, giving up your own mind
Some call it open-mindedness ™
But it's just herd mentality
Of sheep who think they understand
Something someone said sometime
And that someone was worshipped
By those who didn't understand either
Because his words meant nothing
But admitting it was beyond their ability
To back up from the worship once they began
Minds at loss at the sight of meaninglessness
Struggling to find structure in rambling
Like drunk on pink marshmallow absinthe
No meaning, no sense, just crap
I could talk like that on top
Of mediocre rhythm section
Just spit out what comes to mind
Just like I do now and make it
Look like there was an idea
A plum in perfume served in a man's hat
Somewhere a hipster is loving this
Claiming it's the counterculture sarcasm
And irony of art itself in his mind
But really the ones doing the talking
Are the pot and the just-add-water waffles
Shove it up your Ulrich, will you?
Sell out first to easy-listening radio
Then to the pretended uptight artsy-fartsy stuff
Just to appear cultured, to be hip
To make a record with a (senile?) legend
To make it seem like 75% of the band actually knows how to read
Two discs full of this, you say
I won't spoil my pints on those coasters, I say
Reviewed this off YouTube to save the CO2 emissions
(never done that before, on anything, I swear)
For Lucifer's sake, what utter bollocks!
I AM NUMBER EIGHT! *belch*
I AM NUMBER EIGHT! *belch*
I AM NUMBER EIGHT! *belch*
I AM NUMBER EIGHT! *belch*
I AM JACK'S LEFT TESTICLE!
FARTSHIP!
FARTSHIP!
Trample the black-and-white Pygmy village with the elephants
Let Ernest go to jail
Make Al sell shoes to the Wyoming-sized lady
Give Chevy Chase a leading role in a flick
Lie to other people that Seinfeld actually was funny
Even, fuck, watch Everybody Loves Fucking Raymond
And that's high art by this feces' standards
A professor of arts with a spruce cone up his ass
Jumping a digital eight (*belch*) in a swamp
Is high art compared to this manure of the mind
BoringBoringBoringBoringBoringBorehammer
Don't buy into it, no hidden meanings
Only rambling, no music to speak of
Pay more for a plastic duck in IKEA
Sha-la-la-la, Sha-la-la-la!
Shooby-dooby-doo! Ouuu-ouuu-ouuu!
Now look what they did to me!
Killed my mind with the mighty hammer of boredom
Made me write with no regard to rhyme or metric
or sense or content or Number Eight *belch*
Shoot me in the head, please. …please?
