K-POP Lyrics Song

Meat LoafWasted Youth


I remember everything!
I remember every little thing
as if it happened only yesterday.
I was barely seventeen
and I once killed a boy
with a Fender guitar

I don't remember
if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster,
but I do remember
that it had a heart of chrome
and a voice like a horny angel!
I don't remember
if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster,
but I do remember
that it wasn't at all easy.

It required the perfect combination
of the correct power chords,
and the precise angle
from which to strike.
The guitar bled for a week afterward
and the blood was - ooh -
dark and rich like wild berries.
The blood of the guitar was
Chuck Berry red.
The guitar bled
for about a week afterward
but it rung out beautifully,
and I was able to play notes
that I had never even heard before.

So, I took my guitar
and I smashed it against the wall,
I smashed it against the floor,
I smashed it against the body
of a varsity cheerleader,
I smashed it against the hood of a car,
I smashed it against
a 1981 Harley Davidson.
The Harley howled in pain.
The guitar howled in heat.

And I ran up the stairs
to my parents' bedroom.
Mommy and Daddy were
sleeping in the moonlight.
Slowly I opened the door,
creeping in the shadows,
right up to the foot of their bed.

I raised the guitar
high above my head,
and just as I was about
to bring the guitar crashing down
upon the centre of the bed,
my father woke up screaming:
"Stop! Wait a minute!
Stop it boy!
What do you think you're doing?
That's no way to treat
an expensive musical instrument!"
And I said
"God dammit Daddy!
You know I love you,
but you've got a hell of a lot
to learn about rock and roll!"

I remember everything!
I remember every little thing
as if it happened only yesterday.
I was barely seventeen
and I once killed a boy
with a Fender guitar

I don't remember
if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster,
but I do remember
that it had a heart of chrome
and a voice like a horny angel!
I don't remember
if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster,
but I do remember
that it wasn't at all easy.

It required the perfect combination
of the correct power chords,
and the precise angle
from which to strike.
The guitar bled for a week afterward
and the blood was - ooh -
dark and rich like wild berries.
The blood of the guitar was
Chuck Berry red.
The guitar bled
for about a week afterward
but it rung out beautifully,
and I was able to play notes
that I had never even heard before.

So, I took my guitar
and I smashed it against the wall,
I smashed it against the floor,
I smashed it against the body
of a varsity cheerleader,
I smashed it against the hood of a car,
I smashed it against
a 1981 Harley Davidson.
The Harley howled in pain.
The guitar howled in heat.

And I ran up the stairs
to my parents' bedroom.
Mommy and Daddy were
sleeping in the moonlight.
Slowly I opened the door,
creeping in the shadows,
right up to the foot of their bed.

I raised the guitar
high above my head,
and just as I was about
to bring the guitar crashing down
upon the centre of the bed,
my father woke up screaming:
"Stop! Wait a minute!
Stop it boy!
What do you think you're doing?
That's no way to treat
an expensive musical instrument!"
And I said
"God dammit Daddy!
You know I love you,
but you've got a hell of a lot
to learn about rock and roll!"

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