"Who's this guitar playing sonsabitch?"
It's a question common asked
On his head a bucket of chicken bones
On his face a plastic mask
He's the bastard son of a preacher-man
On the town he left a stain
They made him live in a chicken house
To try and hide the shame
He was born in a coop, raised in a cage
Children fear him, critics rage
He's half alive, he's half dead
Folks just call him Buckethead












