Son of a Gun [I Betcha Think This Song Is About You]

Thought you'd get the money, too

Greedy, greedy, greedy

Try to have the cake and eat it, too.

Sharp shooter into breakin' hearts

A baby gigolo, a sex pistol

Hollerin at everything that walks

No substance, just small talk

Know why you're feelin

On that girls behind,

You got a sleazy, one track mind

Workin your work until you find

Who's goin home with you tonight.

I betcha think this song is about you,

I betcha think this song is about you,

I betcha think this song is about you,

I betcha think this song is about you,

Don't you, don't you, don't you.

Sweatin me but I'm not you're type,

You think you irk me, and you're so right,

I'd rather keep the trash and throw you out,

Stupid bitch in my beach house

No, I ain't gonna go and act a fool,

And be the lead story, on the fucking news

Not me, sucker, I'd never be your lover,

I'd rather make you suffer, you stupid motherfucker

Got a chip upon your shoulder,

I just knocked it off,

Show me what you're gonna do,

I ain't bout to run,

You have just run out of ammunition,

Shootin blanks now, you son of a gun.

I betcha think this song is about you,

I betcha think this song is about you,

I betcha think this song is about you,

I betcha think this song is about you,

Don't you, don't you, don't you.

Ha, ha, who, who

Thought you'd get the money, too

Greedy, greedy, greedy