Check out this photo I got via text the other day from one of our degenerate fans--the message read: "This is what your fans do on your record." I wrote back, "Where are the fat meth rails?" He wrote back, "Up my nose, bitch!" With us, it's not Heavy Metal Parking Lot, it's Heavy Metal Living Room, apparently. This might explain why no one's ever at our shows.

BABY HOLD ON TO ME
WHATEVER WILL BE WILL BE
THE FUTURE IS OURS TO SEE
SO BABY HOLD ON TO ME

All right, so far so good, right? Things seem like they’re moving in a positive direction, there’s a plan in place, and the two people appear to be working in tandem toward a common goal.

But then things take a sinister turn . . .

BABY, WHAT'S THESE THINGS
YOU BEEN SAYIN' ABOUT ME
BEHIND MY BACK
IS IT TRUE YOU MIGHT WANT A BETTER LIFE?

You can see the narrator’s agitated because his grammar goes out the window; either that, or he’s from the lower classes; either way, things aren’t looking so good for “baby.”

IS IT TRUE YOU THINK
THESE THINGS ARE LIES, NOW
THINK ABOUT IT, BABY
I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU TO THE TOP

Now the narrator’s just flat-out delusional, his mental health totally suspect, and, if recent history is any guide, we must fear for “baby’s” life.

YOU KNOW THE FUTURE'S LOOKING BRIGHTER
EVERY MORNING WHEN I GET UP
DON'T BE THINKIN' 'BOUT WHAT'S NOT ENOUGH, NOW BABY
JUST BE THINKIN' 'BOUT WHAT WE GOT

Whew! That was a close one! The narrator appears to be focusing on the future, and, not only that, a positive version of it, one unlikely to end in a murder/suicide (at least for now).

OH-OH RICH MAN, POOR MAN, NOW
REALLY DON'T MEAN ALL THAT MUCH
MAMA'S ALWAYS TOLD YOU, GIRL
THAT MONEY CAN'T BUY YOU LOVE

Looks like we spoke too soon—the narrator’s grammar slips again, he’s invoking the past (always a dangerous arena for the mentally unbalanced), and he’s trying to convince himself and “baby” that money’s not important: but if there’s one thing America has taught us, it’s that as long as you have money, you’re important, and you matter, but if you don’t have money, you don’t matter, and no one cares about you.

UH, HOLD ON TO ME TIGHTER
I'M NEVER GONNA LEAVE YOU NOW
CAN'T YOU PLEASE BELIEVE NOW
NEVER GONNA LET YOU GO

And now we see that this sad little story is moving to an apocalyptic conclusion. Please join me in praying for “baby.” The only thing that could possibly save her is divine intervention—either that or if the narrator comes into some Money somehow, perhaps by doing a commercial or something.