Meat Loaf

Wasted youth
Wasted youth
I remember everything!
I remember everything little thing,
as if it happened yesterday.
I was barely seventeen,
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 combanation of the right power chords
and the percise angel from which to strike!

The guitar bled for about a week afterwords,
and the blood was zoot, dark and rich, like wild berrys.
The blood of the guitar was chuck berry red.
The guitar bled for about a week afterwords,
but it rung out beautifly,
and I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before.

So I took my guitar,
and I smashed it aganist the wall,
I smashed it against the floor,
I smashed it against the body of a varisty cheerleader.
Smashed it against the hood of a car.
Smasned it against a 1981 harley-davaidson.
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. What do you think you're doing?"
"That’s no way to treat an expensive musical instrument."
And I said, "God damn it daddy."
"You know I love you,
but you’ve got a hell of a lot to learn about rock n’ roll."