[Intro] (Slow, menacing bassline kicks in) (Sharp, stinging electric guitar lick) (Low, mournful trombone slides in) [Verse 1] (Spoken word, weary, cynical delivery) They’re talking about the deficit, the ozone, the price of gasoline. They’re pointing fingers at the suits, at the charts, at the flickering screens. But I know better. I’ve done the math. It’s not in the policy, it’s not in the war. It’s back in sixty-three, knocking at the cellar door. [Chorus] (Heavy brass swells) Yeah, you can blame it on the Beatles, Blame it on the mop-top mess. Blame the way we’re sitting here, In this state of quiet distress. They sold us a dream in a black-and-white frame, Now we’re burning the house down just to play the game. Yeah, blame it on the Beatles. [Instrumental Break] (Stinging, distorted guitar solo layered with aggressive trombone stabs) [Verse 2] (Spoken word, rhythmic, building tension) They taught the world how to scream, Then told us we were free to roam. Left us with a sitar and a psychedelic ache, Trying to find a way back to a suburban home. Now everything’s a remix, everything’s a brand, We’re just ghost-notes played by a phantom band. [Chorus] (Heavy brass swells) Yeah, you can blame it on the Beatles, Blame it on the mop-top mess. Blame the way we’re sitting here, In this state of quiet distress. They sold us a dream in a black-and-white frame, Now we’re burning the house down just to play the game. Yeah, blame it on the Beatles. [Outro] (Music slows to a walking bassline and one final, dragging trombone note) (Spoken word, fading out) Walrus was Paul, maybe. But the fallout? That’s on all of us. Should’ve kept the haircuts short. Should’ve just stuck to the blues.
