Lou tried to impress me with his hot rod.
He fixed cars, and fucked all the girls on the block.
I admit, I was impressed as I turned to stone.
Intimidation was his aphrodisiac.
When I was a junior in high school,
I left my lights on, and my white Mazda died just like an animal bleeding.
Since Lou was a shop boy in a hot rod,
he stuck his cable in my engine and pumped his godly juice into my cold motor.

Oh, Lou.

Oh, Lou was an asshole who got action.
He screwed my neighbor, and I’m not talking about just any card game.
I’d watch for his hot rod from across the street,
but if it was there, I would run into hiding like a child in a thunderstorm.

Oh, Lou.

Oh, where is my Catholic, alcoholic Lou?
He said he’d bartend with his degree—what—is he gonna mop the counter with it?
And where is that hot rod—does it still have wheels?
Here is my love letter, baby, now tell me—tell me are you still roaming?