Too much is never enough.
Super-size, my eyes like satellites.
The say
They say every great western has it's cowboy.
The say every
Generation X.
A generation vexed, we can't remember why or what
And you know that we're out of control.
And you know
On the back of a pack of matches, I wrote
These guitars won't stay in tune.
These fists are raised against
The writing on the walls says this town ain't ours
Momma, momma don't you waste those prayers on me.
Momma, momma,
This freedom rings, it stings my skin like the chill
And you know that we're out of control. And you
Don't it smell like shit on the streets of New
Momma, momma don't you waste those prayers on me. Momma,
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