I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies

I stand outside in the waiting room, pacing anxiously, looking at the digital readout on my cellphone for the time.
How much longer until the baby arrives? I bite at my nails, well the nails on my left hand, the ones that hold down the strings. The nails on my right hand never get the attention that my teeth showers on the left one. This is due to the simple fact that I don't use guitar picks, but instead abuse the fingers of my right hand, hammering them against the strings of my guitar. Half of me is a crazy old hermet, living in a cave with overgrown fingernails. The other half is a nail biter, with jagged nails gnawed down to the quick.

I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies, but whether I'm ready or not, my baby is about to be born. If I hadn't quit smoking, with the knowledge that nicotine had a powerful hold on my body, I would have a cigar in my pocket, ready to smoke with my pals as I recieve their congratulatory pats on my back. Instead, I nervously pace, ocassionally checking tracking numbers, with the knowledge that my first album is on a truck somewhere in Brooklyn.

As soon as the nurse comes to get me, I will send you photos of my baby. You can tell me how cute she is, even if you really think her face is wrinkled and misproportioned. You can even tell me her face is wrinkled and misproportioned. Regardless of your thoughts my baby is coming and I will love her and I will give you a picture for your wallet. Do with it what you will.