| We only had forty-five minutes
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| Before we were to start our show
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| Our roadies had set up our gear
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| And we were (more than) ready to go
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| Then the owner of the bar came to see us
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| And he told us that we would’t get paid
|
| The thrashers in the bar had to wonder why the show was delayed
|
| Violence condoned
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| Cough up the dough
|
| We packed our guitars, we got in our cars
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| We drove off and we never looked back
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| Six fucking albums, still dealing with welchers
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| I think I’m about to attack
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| I love all our fans but I’m sick of this, man
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| If you book us then we’d better get paid
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| The thrashers in the bar all showed him a mistake had been made
|
| Fans irate, the time was late, they knew the band was gone
|
| Tempers smoked, a riot broke, the violent clash was on
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| Chairs were thrown, damage sown, they paid to see the band
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| Bottles flying, underlying vengeance for the fans
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| Take a stand and never change your plans
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| Demand respect or be a useless fool
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| Never let the big shots get away
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| With thinking that they’re making all the rules
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| If they think that you’re a weakling
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| You’d better fight and show them it ain’t true
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| Teach them all a violent lesson
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| And show them just what you can do
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| Revenge, revenge, support it each and every day
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| Revenge, revenge, violence blows the weasels away |