116. The St Louis Riot

What?

Some guy, some asshole
thinks just because he paid his
fifty bucks he can film me
from down in the front row.

Nah.

That shit don’t roll with me, homes.
And I warn him, I tell him, get
that camera out my face, bitch
before I bust your chrome dome.

Shit.

Then the fucker has the nerve to flip me
off while the security retards are just
standing around scratching their balls,
doing nothing but vibe on the free music.

So.

Of course I have to handle it myself as per usual.
Like I haven’t got enough to do, what with
delivering the music and the rigourous
physical demands of fronting a kick-ass band.

Blood.

That’s what I think they want sometimes
only this time I flip it, decide to give them
blood. So I do what anyone would do when
their soul is being stolen by assholes. Serious.

Yeah.

So I take a running dive into the throng head-first
and the crowd parts like the sea of Galillee
for Moses or whatever and I bust that fool on the
chops. Of course, I take my hat off first though.

Then

then the security finally decide to jump in before
I bitch-slap 15,000 fools one by one and I
climb back on stage and I’m all, like, “Thanks
to the lame ass security, I'm going home.”

Bang!

I throw my mic down and it sounds likes a gun
going off and I exit stage left while the band
are just standing around but by this point I’m
so beyond giving a fuck it’s almost funny.

Crazy.

Then I’m the limo, in my robe, towel round my neck,
drink in hand, cruising back to the hotel, and
everything is silent apart from the crackle of the
radio reporting a riot at a show in St Louis.

St Louis?

Fucking St. Shit-hole more like. City of Barbarians.
It’s months later when the cops arrest me for ‘incitement’
but they’ve got nothing on me because they know
I’m Axl Rose, and Axl always takes care of business, baby.