I Hate The Beatles

Now I hate "Eight Days a Week"

Honestly, it makes me sick

To think of you and her asleep

My childhood song playing on repeat

And they would say your bird can sing

Go ahead and cut the wings

And from a cage, you're listening

My father's name is a buried memory

So don't mind me

If I'm throwing stones at your door

Don't blame me

For getting so hurt with something so small

No, don't take it personal

'Cause it's personal

You stole Lucy's diamond rings

Thought you said that you played clean

And honestly, I've heard some things

That make me doubt all your reasoning

So don't mind me

If I'm throwing stones at your door

Don't blame me

For getting so hurt with something so small

No, don't take it personal

'Cause it's personal

No, don't take it personal

'Cause it's personal