Its hard to sing rock & roll before nine
Hard to hit those high notes before breakfast time.
My buttered roll tasted like a rock,
I croak like a frog who’s in a hot crock pot.
So don’t judge my band by how we sound
On Good Morning America if you’re downtown;
We’re not this bad no matter how hard we try
We sound like chickens captured for a fry.
The truth is we really need the gig;
Our agent told us this could make us big.
We're beating guitars when we're really not awake;
We just a filler during the commercial break.
Come see us in a bar when we're gassed on booze and wine;
Then you'll hear a band jamming in prime time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem