Leo

Testo

“Force Protection Fuckery” [Verse 1] Leo rolls in like he owns the fucking base, Force Protection badge and a permanent pissed-off face. Says, “I know explosives, boys, I’ve seen some serious shit,” Then spends forty fucking minutes explaining how the moon landing wasn’t legit. Every shadow is a cover-up, every memo is a lie, Every bird above the fence is some government fucking spy. He says the whole organization’s rotten to the bone, Then signs another contract like, “Ah fuck it, I’m not going home.” He could retire tomorrow, put his feet up by the sea, But apparently complaining is his favorite fucking hobby. “THIS PLACE IS FUCKED!” he screams for the hundredth time that day, Then asks HR where the dotted line is so he can fucking stay. [Chorus] Oh Leo, Leo, king of “this place sucks,” Talking bombs, conspiracies, tits and getting fucked. He hates every fucking office, every rule and every plan, But keeps signing on for more like the organization’s biggest fan. He says, “Women love me, brother, I still got the magic touch,” Five minutes later: “I found the one, man, I love this girl so much.” He barely drinks a whiskey, won’t touch ten beers in a row, ‘Cause sober Leo’s loyal… drunk Leo apparently turns into a fucking rodeo. [Verse 2] He’ll tell you ’bout some woman that he “totally could’ve nailed,” Then show you his sweetheart’s picture like a lovesick fucking male. “One hundred percent, boys, this woman is the one,” Then somehow the conversation ends with some story about someone’s mum. He’s got two fucking settings and they change without a sign: “I’m settled down forever,” and “That ass should’ve been mine.” Romantic fucking Romeo with the mouth of a truck-stop whore, One minute buying flowers, next minute rating women one to four. But pour that man some alcohol and Leo knows the score: Two beers: fucking gentleman. Six beers: lock the fucking door. So he drinks Coke like a choirboy, calm and under control, ‘Cause apparently liquor doesn’t hit his liver— it goes straight to his fucking pole. [Chorus] Oh Leo, Leo, king of “this place sucks,” Talking bombs, conspiracies, tits and getting fucked. He hates every fucking office, every rule and every plan, But keeps signing on for more like the organization’s biggest fan. He says, “Women love me, brother, I still got the magic touch,” Five minutes later: “I found the one, man, I love this girl so much.” He barely drinks a whiskey, won’t touch ten beers in a row, ‘Cause sober Leo’s loyal… drunk Leo apparently turns into a fucking rodeo. [Verse 3] Ask Leo ‘bout a suitcase and he’ll give a lecture fast, “Could be wires, could be pressure, could be secret government gas.” Ask him where he learned it and the answer gets unclear: “Research, mate… proper research.” Translation: three fucking videos and a beer. He sees patterns in the ceiling, CIA inside the fan, Says some bastard in Brussels has a fifty-year master plan. The coffee machine is bugged, the printer tracks your face, And that new bloke from logistics? “Definitely fucking intelligence, mate.” Yet despite the grand conspiracy controlling land and sky, Leo never seems to mention why he never says goodbye. Retirement sitting ready, freedom knocking at his gate, But Leo signs another year just so he can tell us why he hates the place. [Bridge] He hates the bosses. Hates the rules. Hates the meetings full of fools. Hates the paperwork, hates the chain, Hates the fucking annual training again. Hates the system, hates the crew, Probably fucking hates this song too. But when his contract hits its end— “Where do I fucking sign, my friend?” [Breakdown] Bomb expert! Maybe. Conspiracy expert! Absolutely. Retired? Could be. Actually leaving? Not a fucking chance. Faithful boyfriend? Apparently. Horny bastard? Historically. Heavy drinker? Fuck no. Because after six pints— NOBODY KNOWS WHERE LEO’S DICK WILL GO. [Final Chorus] Oh Leo, Leo, Force Protection’s pride, With a conspiracy in his head and retirement pushed aside. He’ll call the whole organization a festering pile of shit, Then renew his fucking contract while complaining every minute of it. He found his perfect sweetheart, says she’s everything he needs, While still telling stories that would make a fucking priest leave. So raise a glass of water—because whiskey’s dangerous, bro— To the bomb-checking, woman-talking, contract-signing, government-distrusting, organization-hating, sober-by-necessity motherfucker we call Leo. [Outro] “This place is fucking bullshit.” …See you next contract, Leo.