Mrs. E. Roosevelt never heard me shoot my gun   Mrs. E. Roosevelt didn't even know I owned one   Somewhere between the cobblestone floor and the slated wooden ceiling   Cuddling my semi-automatic, what a very fuzzy feeling   Oh, there's nothing like emptying the cartridge at the sun      Uh-merica   Uh-merica   Oh, there's nothing like emptying the cartridge at the sun.      Oh we're born alone and we're covered by m-m-m-mother's kisses   The mind has already forgotten what the body still misses   Somewhere between the sticky floor and the cracks in the ceiling   Cuddling my semi automatic, what a very fuzzy feeling   Oh, there's nothing like emptying the cartridge at the sun      Uh-merica   Uh-merica   Oh, there's nothing like emptying the cartridge at the sun