Andy Pruitt's luck was never what you'd call real good,
Always had a tough time gettin' by, it seems,
But he worked and got his house fixed up and finally thought he could,
Afford the motorcycle of his dreams,
So he went and picked a Honda out at Sonny's Chopper Shop,
"I've gotta warn ya," Sonny said, as Andy climbed on top,
"Never turn the key while it's in gear," which Andy had to do,
And straight through the showroom window he and that new Honda flew.

Oh, the pain that Andy went through when he went through the pane,
He was sliced and diced and crinkle-cut, the blood ran down like rain,
They scraped him up and carted him off to Emergency,
Where the folks in white all gathered 'round and held a quilting bee.

The boys brought Andy home all bandaged up from head to toe,
His wife just shook her head and said, "What now?"
He found the bike where Sonny'd parked it on the patio,
Said, "This sucker wracked me up, I'll show you how."
"Now, Deannie, if you start this thing, make sure it ain't in gear,"
He kicked it over once to show how it could buck and rear,
And that bike drug Andy through his brand new plate-glass slidin' door,
Trashed the den, flipped over, drained the gas tank on the floor.

Oh, the pain that Andy went through when he went through the pane,
He was sliced and diced and crinkle-cut, the blood ran down like rain,
She scraped him up and carted him back to Emergency,
Where the folks in white all gathered 'round for another quilting bee.

With more stitches in his hide than Betsy Ross had ever sewn,
Andy got back home, he felt like one big ache,
He staggered to the bathroom and eased down upon the throne,
And lit a cigarette, a bad mistake,
For unbeknownst to that poor Darvon-headed, shredded man,
Deannie'd mopped up all that gasoline and dumped it in the can,
He chucked the match between his legs, a singein' fireball,
Blew Andy off the toilet seat and through the shower stall.

Oh, the pain that Andy went through when he went through the pane,
He was sliced and diced and crinkle-cut, the blood ran down like rain,
They scraped him up and carted him back to Emergency,
Where the folks in white all gathered 'round for another quilting bee.

Andy woke next day eight-hundred dollars in the hole,
For that busted glass, his busted ass, new pipes and bathroom bowl,
His motorcycle fantasy, he never did complete,
He sold the bike he'd never rode for more than fifteen feet.

Copyright © by Mr. Chocolate Mess Music Company (BMI). All Rights Reserved.