My fingers itch and so does my mind I sit here with my guitar about to write music of some Kind The latest weeks of pasta has turned my belly into a Balloon And the lack of toilet-paper has made me look like a Baboon Maybe I should try to write a Mc Donaldґs-kind-of-song Real easy to chew for everybody from Oslo to Hong Kong The bills have to be paid and the dogs have to be fed I dig and I dig for a profitable hookline in my head... But when we think we got it Our million dollar hit We throw the chords around a bit And no one understands it Itґs kinda hard to admit Our expected monster hit Has turned into a pile of shit And no one understands it No one understands it...