Maybe the songs that we sing are wrong / Maybe the dreams that we dream are gone / So bring it on home and it won't be long / It's gettin' better man!
[Wade: Day I die, Byron, I'm gettin' sprung from hell. ] I might think that too, if I came from the seed of a drunk gravedigger, and the rancid womb of a whore.
And you're gettin' on my nerves!
After I shoot, hand me my mace! The one'nat says "Bear Beater" onna handle. You're gettin' a wee bit thick inna bum fer chocolates, annywae.