| He doesn’t have a problem with drugs
|
| He just doesn’t get them
|
| He’s fine that his mates have tattoos
|
| But he thinks they’ll regret them
|
| He likes going to pubs
|
| But he hates when the music’s too loud
|
| He tends not to go to rock concerts
|
| Cause he can’t stand the crowds
|
| But all he’s ever wanted to be
|
| Is a rock star on Rage or MTV
|
| But he knows that it’s not fucking likely
|
| He’s just turned thirty
|
| He knows that he will always be
|
| A rock’n’roll nerd
|
| He’ll keep writing songs the world will never hear
|
| And though they won’t be heard
|
| He’ll just keep writing
|
| Oh yeah
|
| But you see the problem is
|
| He always dreamt of being a star
|
| But he learned piano instead of guitar
|
| Which in the '90s didn’t get you very far
|
| So while all the other kids were learning Stairway
|
| He was the piano to their forte
|
| But he was convinced one day
|
| He’d rock their fucking asses
|
| Be an icon for the disenfranchised masses
|
| And grow his hair long
|
| And rebel against the state
|
| But just for now that’d have to wait
|
| Cause he’s running late for his morning classes
|
| And he will always be
|
| A rock’n’roll nerd
|
| He’ll keep playing gigs that no one knows about
|
| And though it sounds absurd
|
| He’ll just keep playing
|
| Oh yeah
|
| But you see the problem is
|
| There’s not much depth in what he’s singing
|
| He’s a victim of his upper middle class upbringing
|
| So he can’t write about the hood
|
| Or bling bling
|
| So he sits and imagines his girlfriend is dead
|
| To try and evoke some angst in his middle class head
|
| But the bitch is always fine at half past nine
|
| When they go to bed
|
| And he’s not spent a single night in prison
|
| He has no issues with nutrition
|
| He has no drinking problem
|
| And no drug addiction
|
| Unless you count the drugs they put in chicken
|
| And marijuana always tends to make him cough
|
| He doesn’t look good with his t-shirt off
|
| And when he tries to act tough
|
| You can tell he’s tricking
|
| While his mates all go out late
|
| Popping pills and having fun
|
| He goes home and showers
|
| And gets a good eight hours
|
| He gets his thrills from his morning run
|
| And while his mates all go on dates
|
| Taking speed and drinking cans of Jim Beam
|
| He stays home and cooks
|
| Curls up with a book
|
| With the girl he’s had since he was seventeen
|
| Cause he’s never really been part of the scene
|
| Give him Guns N' Roses, he’ll take Queen
|
| He’s more into Beatles than The Stones
|
| He’s more Stevie Wonder than Ramones
|
| And he’s never owned a panel van
|
| He’s never shot a Pantera fan
|
| He doesn’t know the difference between metal and thrash
|
| He couldn’t tell you nothing about Axel and Slash
|
| He likes Ben Folds and the Jackson Five
|
| He knows all the words to Staying Alive
|
| And though he wants to be all grungy and cool
|
| He spent eleven years in a motherfucking private school
|
| So it don’t matter how he tries
|
| He cannot hide behind his rock’n’roll lies
|
| Cause you’ve either got it or you don’t
|
| You’ll either rock it or you won’t
|
| Yeah, you’ve either got it or you don’t
|
| Yeah, you’ll either rock it or you won’t
|
| He knows that his music lacks depth
|
| But it just can’t be helped
|
| He has nothing interesting to say
|
| So he writes about himself
|
| But he doesn’t want to seem self-obsessed
|
| So he writes in third person
|
| In an attempt to seem more rock’n’roll
|
| But he suspects it’s not working
|
| And deep in his heart he knows
|
| That he’ll never be Silver Chair or Eskimo Joe
|
| And even if he was quite pretty
|
| With small pants like Kylie
|
| He knows that he will always be
|
| A rock’n’roll nerd
|
| He’ll keep writing songs the world don’t care about
|
| And though it sounds absurd
|
| He’ll just keep writing
|
| Oh yeah
|
| You can criticise him
|
| But he won’t care
|
| Cause he wants to rock
|
| And he will never be deterred
|
| But he’ll always be a fucked up little
|
| Try-hard wannabe rock’n’roll nerd |