Wasted Youth by Meatloaf
Wasted Youth
I remember everything.
I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday.
I was barely 17 and I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar.
I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster,
but I do remember that it had a heart of chrome and a voice like a horny angel.
I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster,
but I do remember that it wasn't at all easy.
It required the perfect combination of the right power chords and the precise angle from which to strike.
The guitar bled for about a week afterward and the blood was so dark and rich.
Like wild berries.
The blood of the guitar was Chuck Berry red.
The guitar bled for about a week afterward, but it wrung out beautifully
and I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before.
So I took my guitar and I smashed it against the wall.
I smashed it against the floor.
I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader.
I smashed it against the hood of a car.
I smashed it against a 1981 Harley Davidson.
The Harley howled in pain.
The guitar howled in heat.
And I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom.
Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the moonlight.
Slowly I opened the door, creeping in the shadows right up to the foot of their bed.
I raised the guitar high above my head
and just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down upon the center of the bed,
my father woke up screaming
STOP!
Wait a minute!
Stop it boy!
Wha'd'you think you're doin'?
That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!
And I said GODDAMNIT DADDY!
You know I love you, but you've got a helluva lot to learn about rock and roll.
I remember everything.
I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday.
I was barely 17 and I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar.
I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster,
but I do remember that it had a heart of chrome and a voice like a horny angel.
I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster,
but I do remember that it wasn't at all easy.
It required the perfect combination of the right power chords and the precise angle from which to strike.
The guitar bled for about a week afterward and the blood was so dark and rich.
Like wild berries.
The blood of the guitar was Chuck Berry red.
The guitar bled for about a week afterward, but it wrung out beautifully
and I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before.
So I took my guitar and I smashed it against the wall.
I smashed it against the floor.
I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader.
I smashed it against the hood of a car.
I smashed it against a 1981 Harley Davidson.
The Harley howled in pain.
The guitar howled in heat.
And I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom.
Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the moonlight.
Slowly I opened the door, creeping in the shadows right up to the foot of their bed.
I raised the guitar high above my head
and just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down upon the center of the bed,
my father woke up screaming
STOP!
Wait a minute!
Stop it boy!
Wha'd'you think you're doin'?
That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!
And I said GODDAMNIT DADDY!
You know I love you, but you've got a helluva lot to learn about rock and roll.