She's a Tramp and He's a Loser
In a Smoky Bar From Kafka's Darkest Dreams
And the Critics Know What Crap Is Hip to Swallow
It's All High Volume
Her Leather Comes Off in the Back Room
And a Million Screaming Morons Call It Art
So Much Fun Is Not Fun Any Longer
It's All High Volume
High Volume
As If I Was the One to Say
If It's Right Or If It's Wrong
Close Your Eyes Until It Goes Away
Turn It Up Until You Hear the Song
She's As Sweet As Skin, As Deep As Candy
But If It Sells They'll Never Wonder Why
'til the Posers and the Preachers Mate Like Mongrels
It's All High Volume
