here's a story 'bout an american man
who's always used to doin' things the best that he canhe's got his wife, he's got his kids by his sidehe's got his favorite band tattooed on his back
you know he'd rather fuck you up then swallow his pridedropped out of school because he loved the guitar
we'll call him johnny, and johnny wore blackwe used to check him out at all the clubs and the barshe'd rather die on the outside, fight from withinwhen everything was said and done he knew he would win
he called the shots - and straddled the linewe knew he was lost all the time(johnny black)the years had passed us and the crowd moved onwe hadn't seen or heard from him in oh so long
we never even thought to pick up the phoneor to take the time to see if johnny was homehe had a motorcycle parked in the yard
which was always there for cruisin' when the times were hardhe never had a need to follow the massand he was all by himself as he stepped on the gas: