Son Of Sam Donaldson

In the dark recesses of your bruised brain
In your intellectual whiskey glass you can do no harm
You can't harm anarchists, you can't hurt your dad
You tried, and you tried, and you shot yourself in the foot

Down you went, your girlfriend screamed
Fell down the stairs, got a hit record
The medicine man jacked you off
Junkie Joe told you about Kerouac
You already knew all that, you knew all that

You bought into everything that seemed hip to the masses
Beatle boots, sub pop, X-ray glasses
Your uncle Ray raped your cousin Fanny, you never got over it
It even killed your granny
You grabbed up your guitar, and you moved out the way
Shot yourself in the foot, walking down a car rail line
You can't harm anarchists, you can't hurt your dad
You can't hurt a mass murderer, you can't blow up the world

You can't hurt your dad
You can't shoot the president, too many bodyguards
Hinckley couldn't shoot straight, hit a guy in the forehead
Really wanted to shoot Jodie Foster, either that or fuck her
Drew her picture in the sand at Coney Island
Bought twenty covers of her on the cover of Vanity Fair
The son of Sam Donaldson loaded his guns

You can't hurt anarchists, you can't hurt your dad
Don't buy him a cake on his birthday, it'll only make him sad
You can't hurt anarchists, you can't hurt your dad
Don't buy him a cake on his birthday, it'll only make him sad
Reminds him of his wedding, when your mom became his wife
The poor bastard told me, it was the worst day of his life