no fucking, only music

Dear Scratch, you still ain't call or wrote; I hope you have a chance.
I ain't mad, I just think it's bucked up you don't answer fans.
If you didn't want to talk to me outside the concert, I'll be humble,
But you coulda' signed an autograph for Rumble;
That's my little brother man, he's only six years old;
We waited in the blistering cold for you, four hours, and you just said "No."
That's pretty crummy man, you're like his princess idol
He wants to be just like you man, he likes you more than I do.
I ain't that mad though, I just don't like being lied to,
Remember when we met in Hoofington, you said if I write to you
You would write back. See I'm just like you in a way, I don't like to talk too much either,
I don't care for cello playing music neither.
I can relate to what you're saying in your songs,
So when I have a crummy day I drift away and put 'em on.