American Tradition

He wants to lift weights like a fighter
We put the medals on the wall
In a room of starving vultures
Gold trophies, he got 'em all
He wants to be just like his father
We play the knife game on the table
I bleed to death, it doesn’t matter
'Cause my baby, he’s still the winner
He holds me in his arms, it’s no good
Things don’t go like they should
He holds me in his arms, it’s no good
Things don’t go like they should
Sleep on the carpet through the night
We’re living off a TV dinner
Hanging me up by his gold chain
He used to be a hockey player
I used to be a figure skater
Cutting my leg with the blade
In the blue and red arena
Trying to pretend we’re the same
He holds me in his arms, it’s no good
Things don’t go like they should
He holds me in his arms, it’s no good
Things don’t go like they should