| Way down, way down |
| Underneath the garden |
| Wrapped up in some plastic |
| Thats where you’ll find the bones |
| Of Christopher John Bittner |
| He was the first slain by my hand |
| He was the bass player in my band |
| But I’d had all I could stand |
| Of the game |
| Well it started with the little things |
| He’d make a mess, he’d break his strings |
| He’d book us gigs and then forget the dates |
| On practice days he’d seldom show |
| And by the time he did it was time to go And in the studio he finally sealed his fate |
| I put him way down, way down |
| Underneath the garden |
| Wrapped up in some plastic |
| Yea, thats where you’ll find the bones |
| Of Christopher John Bittner |
| He was the first slain by my hand |
| He was the bass player in my band |
| But I’d had all I could stand |
| Of the game |
| Well we played on through the summer heat |
| But Josh could hardly keep the beat |
| It seems as though he drifted into space |
| Always upstairs drinking forties |
| Or outside chasing shorties |
| I finally had to put him in his place |
| I put him way down, way down |
| Underneath my bedroom |
| Walled up in the basement |
| Thats where you’ll find the bones |
| Of little Joshy Eppard |
| Not the first slain by my hand |
| He was the drummer in my band |
| But I had all I could stand |
| Of the game |
| Well I guess that I’ve gone overboard |
| Cause as I sit and strum these chords |
| They sure could use a baseline and a beat |
| And now the mirror makes me hault |
| I realize its all my fault |
| Its time to turn these murderous hands on me And I’ll be way down, way down |
| Underneath the garden |
| Walled up in the basement |
| That’s where you’ll find the bones |
| Of guys without replacement |
| I’ll be the last slain by my hand |
| I’m gonna reunite the band |
| And we’ll be in another land |
| All the same |
| All the same |
| All the same |
| All the same |