If you could pick your guitar like you pick your nose,nOr play a clean lick like you lick clean your toes,nIf you were less like a thistle, and more like a rosenYou could be the shitnYeah you could be the shitnYou could be the shit like mennBut your lyrics are trite and redundantnChock full of cliches like sardines in a cannYou tend to repeat things again and againnYou can’t write for shit,nNo you can’t write for shitnYou can’t write for shit like mennYour band sucks my assnAnd bows down before menTo kiss the tips of my painted toesnAnd lick my callused feetnYour band sucksnYour band sucksnYour band sucks mennBut then one daynIn the month of maynSitting complacent and borednThey played your song on the radionAnd I heard your power chordsnAnd they didn’t sucknNo they didn’t sucknThey didn’t suck mennWell I’ve changed my views and I see the lightnThis competition between, it just ain’t rightnAnd I don’t wanna end up in a great big fightn‘cause your band kicked the shitnyeah your band kicks the shitnyour band kicks the shit out of mennMy band sucks my assnAnd bows down before menTo kiss the tips of my painted toesnAnd lick my callused feetnMy band sucksnMy band sucksnMy band sucks men