|
Who's that guitar playin' son-of-a bitch? |
|
is a question common asked. |
|
On his head a bucket of chicken bones. |
|
On his face a plastic mask. |
|
He's the bastard son of a preacher-man. |
|
On the town he left a stain. |
|
They made him live in a chicken house |
|
to try and hide the shame. |
|
For he was born in a coop |
|
and raised in a cage. |
|
Children fear him. |
|
Critics rage! |
|
He's half alive, |
|
he's half dead. |
|
Folks just call him Buckethead! |
|
Farmboys they torment him |
|
as he snuggled with the hens. |
|
They hosed him down with water |
|
and stole his little friends. |
|
And late at night he'd sneak off |
|
to the graveyard all alone, |
|
and play his soapbox guitar |
|
to the faces made of stone. |
|
Buckethead found his freedom |
|
at the age of seventeen |
|
when he burnt down that old chicken house |
|
with a quart of gasoline. |
|
He played a few shows on corners |
|
and bought a real guitar. |
|
And with the help of Colonol Sanders |
|
he's bound to be a star. |
|
For he was born in a coop |
|
and raised in a cage. |
|
Children fear him. |
|
Critics rage! |
|
He's half alive, |
|
he's half dead. |
|
Folks just call him Buckethead! |
