Some nights you’re the fucker in HyVee with his aviators on,
and it’s spittin’ and thunderin’ outside,
and you’re buyin’ yourself a fuckin’ months worth of groceries,
and you’re the fucker in HyVee with his aviators on.
Flip-flops splashing through the puddles,
paint covered jeans hold the chill water to your thighs,
and your leather jacket ain’t nearly so cool as it was years and years ago.
But stroll in there like you own the place.
Fuck ‘em if they think you’re high.
Your pantry’s run dry,
and you’re just…
the fucker in HyVee with his aviators on.
