but I never could jam,
Without charts in my hand,
'cause in essence I'm really tone-deaf
If I'm stupid my friend is much dumber
'cause he thinks I'm a virtuose strummer
I love what he thinks,
And he buys me my drinks,
So I'll let him hang on as my drummer
My reverb got left in my gig-sack
I did the whole show with no slap-back
I never expected,
To be "uneffected",
So who's gonna' buy me a six-pack?
I freaked out all out of proportion
My face in a show-case contortion
No wah-wah, no feedback,
No phase shift no slap-back,
No rotary driven distortion
My ears rang with sonic vibration
With a bent out of shape intonation
Sense of balance phase shifted,
'til the shot glass I lifted,
Gave me some equalization
The hairs stood erect on my neck
The crowd made me a nervous wreck
They shouted, "You blow!!",
but they'll never know,
How groovy I sound at sound check
My range was at best a half-octave
The show came off purely half-cocked-ive
The last note, a death knell
From the pits of my Hell
Someone punched me as was their prerogative
It was only then heard a pure note
Coming from this now eye-blackened bloke
Oh how sweetly I sounded,
As I was surrounded,
Perhaps the blow loosened my throat
I'm ashamed that the crowd showed such doubt
Turning cheers to crude, guttural shout
The drinks keep me limber,
but I'll not remember,
Once awake from this latest black out
I thought that I'd stopped on a high note
but it just goes to show whadda' I know?
I sang my best stuff,
but the crowd was quite rough,
From the exit they quipped, "What a wino!"