jueves, 5 de enero de 2006

Wasted Youth

Meat Loaf
Letra: Jim Steinman


Wasted youth!
Wasted youth!

I remember everything!
I remember every little thing,
as if it happened only yesterday.
I was barely seventeen,
and I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar.

I don't remember
if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster,
but I do remember that it had a heart of chrome,
and a voice like a horny angel.

I don't remember
if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster,
but I do remember that it wasn't at all easy.
It required the perfect combination of the right power chords
and the precise angle from which to strike!

The guitar bled for about a week afterward,
and the blood was -ooh- dark and rich, like wild berries.
The blood of the guitar was Chuck Berry red.

The guitar bled for about a week afterward,
but it rung out beautifully,
and I was able to play notes
that I had never even heard before.

So I took my guitar,
and I smashed it against the wall,
I smashed it against the floor,
I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader.
Smashed it against the hood of a car,
smashed it against a 1981 Harley-Davidson.
The Harley howled in pain,
the guitar howled in heat.

And I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom.
Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the moonlight.
Slowly, I opened the door,
creeping in the shadows
right up to the foot of their bed.

I raised the guitar high above my head
and just as I was about to bring the guitar
crashing down upon the center of the bed,
my father woke up, screaming "Stop!"
"Wait a minute! Stop it boy!
What do you think you're doing?
That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!"
And I said, "God Dammit Daddy!
You know I love you,
but you got a hell of a lot to learn about rock 'n roll."