Chip Off The Old Blog - Louis Logic

You’re never really gonna get your way

And if you did, you wouldn’t like how it affects your weight

Sittin' in your living room depressed all day

With your puppy dog eyes and a wet long face

Let’s all pray to be rockstars, eh?

Wildin' till we’re senile and it rots our brains

Till we’re covered up in wrinkles with our locks gone grey

Like a bunch a little lost Sharpies

And you don’t really wanna live forever with a growing bucket list you’ll never

Be halfway on a pathway to tickin' off even if you had your shit together

But since you’ll never be perfect, Mr. Right, you gotta settle for Mr. Better

You better hope for an ugly stepsister cause you’ll never get with a Cinderella

You disappointed now about your self improvement month?

No velvet ropes or bouncers, but welcome to the club

When your life gets helper skelter it might just help to do some drugs

Probably not though, when a squad of cops show up

And push your pretty little self into the rug

Won’t that be fun when you’re snug in a thug’s hug in a holding cell?

Who woulda thought when you go to jail

That they still have love for some show and tell?

All your buds’ll be overwhelmed and see red until they’re depressed

And sleepless fulla regret at the deep breadth of your newfound street cred

Trust fund kid get off your soapbox and just admit you’re a Chip Off The Old

Blog

I’ve been worried about your health

Cause I think I might just kill yourself

Hope your therapist and your daddy’s wealth

Get you through the night when you’re album doesn’t sell

Everyone’s a critic or a veggie lovin' cynical

Musician on a mission just to better up his image

And position in the rat face.

Picture him in blackface

Bet you’d sink to anything to get another listen

In the friendly competition of depression and prescriptions you’re in last place

Sedatives and whiskey are so passé

You’re a class A butthead who should be living in an ashtray

Say that the world ends today in a whirlwind

Would a fibber like you admit in high school

You had a made up Canadian girlfriend?

Pssshht… as if you had anyone fooled!

Everyone knew you were never that cool

You figured you could fix it if you kept your past tombed

So you move to NY and get a tattoo

The sad truth sets in as you sit in your dusty apartment

You woulda been stuck in the heartland if NY had its own customs department

Sad sack suffering artists and unapproachable social climbers

Make 'em all genuflect outta pretend respect that they show for his local

highness

Your shyness, a thing of the past

Your ego size is so big that it has its own zip code

Situated near the other rich folk

It bumps disco and I hear it loves to sniff coke

And of course in a short quick stroke, you think you got a little big for your

fishbowl

You better not read into it, your life’s a Cliff Notes

The gist of which is mom and dad’ll fix it if it’s broke

Trust fund kid get off your soapbox

And come to grips you’re a Chip Off The Old Blog

I’ve been worried about your health

Cause I think I might just kill yourself

Hope your therapist and your daddy’s wealth

Get you through the night when you’re album doesn’t sell

I’ve been worried about your health

Cause I think I might just kill yourself

Hope your therapist and your daddy’s wealth

Get you through the night when you’re album doesn’t sell