Tattooed, trash talking techs
Gritty warriors with hearts of gold
Forsaking a life of normalcy
For the grind of the open road
Black clad angels with flashlights
Subsisting on pizza and beer
Whiskey, fries and cigarettes,
Broken sleep and broken gear
Fixing anything that can go wrong
For no task are they unable
Speakers blown and drunken fans to be bounced
Changing strings and swapping cables
Running towards an on-stage crisis
Like firefighters to a burning building
As I stand there helpless, guitar in hand
My ego swiftly wilting
In younger days before ever on stage
My problems seemed to last forever
If only I’d had my own road crew show up
To duct tape and super glue my life together