hammer on the b string when you do the F
F (003210)
I have a friend, he's mostly made of paint
He wakes up, drives to work and straight back home again
He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper
I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover
And I tried to tell him that he had a sense
Of color and composition so magnificent
And he said thank you, please, but your flattery
It is truly not becoming me
Your eyes are poor, you're blind, you see
No beauty ever could have come from me
I'm a waste
Of breath, of space, of time