It's a wild thing, a brittle thingnSome know it as the instrument of yearningnIt knows you will capitulatenYou're beeswax and the forest fires are burningnYou can have a lot matesnBreak a lot of platesnMake it to the end in one piece but it's still a mysterynIt's not some mighty visionnIt's more a dirty polaroid of historynThis thing has claws and poison sporesnThis is a dirty bomb that blows off all the doorsnIt's what they call the troublemeatnThe troublemeatnnIt's a no-large-potato-thingnBut all your good sense cannot hold a candlenIt's another pissing contestn'Tween the Devil and the nice guy in the sandalsnYou wanna say it's on the blink, put it in the sinknTake it to the landfill then go home and take a showernIt leaves its greasy tidemarknIn a place your cleaning products cannot scournThis bitch got wheelsnIt mass appealsnAnd you will surely not remember how it feelsnThat's why they it's called the troublemeatnThe troublemeatnnIt's an unprepossessive thingnA livid boil upon the arse of reasonnIt fucks with me perpetuallynThe filthy little monkey in its seasonnYou can file away your teethnGet up on the heathnHowling in the pouring rain and find out who will listennI don't like to admit itnI sometimes think I live just for this frissionnIt licks its lips, swivels its hipsnYou think it's elegant but it's as cheap as chipsnThis lousy thing called troublemeatnThe troublemeat