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Patrick Goble
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The Process
Holy fucking shit! He wrote another fucking song
Why does he keep on writing them when hope has long been gone?
He may not be Gaga, Miley, Jackson, or the King
But let me tell you why this bearded fuck has got to sing
Twenty-four/seven, 3-6-5 days of the year
In his mind the music plays 'a blasting in his ears
A-B-C-D-E-F-G, the notes now play themselves
And on the staff, the notes they dance like bearded fucking elves
It's just his process, how he makes himself/(sense of) this wreck
It's just his process. Send him a motherfucking check
It's just his process, how he makes himself/(sense of) this wreck
It's just his process. Send him a motherfucking check
He'll write a fucking song for every dick that's ever lived
Pop, blues, rock, funk, dance, and trance—the man just wants to give
Now open up your ears to him, you silly fucking sod
And blast his jams from noon till night so loud you'll wake up God
Early in the morn when normal folks are getting up
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He's pounding keys and riding strings like monster fucking truck
Eighth notes on his Cheerios and quarters in his tonic
He's regular like fiber man and shits a philharmonic
Twenty-four/seven, 3-6-5 days of the year
In his mind the music plays 'a blasting in his ears
A-B-C-D-E-F-G, the notes now play themselves
And on the staff, the notes they dance like bearded fucking elves
Holy fucking shit! He wrote another fucking song
Why does he keep on writing them when hope has long been gone?
He may not be Gaga, Miley, Jackson, or the King
But let me tell you why this bearded fuck has got to sing
It's just his process, how he makes himself/(sense of) this wreck
It's just his process. Send him a motherfucking check
It's just his process, how he makes himself/(sense of) this wreck
It's just his process. Send him a motherfucking check
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