Meeting the judge

I remember laying down

It was 1983

Under the tree while listening to London

Calling or something like that

Twenty-three years later

I'm here at a meeting

Trying to impress someone at a dying record company

I got nothing to prove

And in walks in this sullen girl

Who looks like she's nineteen, or wants to be

With her biker boots and her hair dyed black

Did that look so many years ago

She looks at me like I'm some square

Or I'm like her mother

Well, fuck you, kid; I got nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

Once I was as miserable as you

Nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

I got nothing to prove

And here I am in Los Angeles

I came here two years ago

And everyone's young and beautiful,

and their skin is so smooth

And everyone's in the industry,

and I hate when they use that word

And when they tell me they're in the industry,

I ask, "Oh, are you in steel?"

I've got nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

Once I was as miserable as you

Nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

I got nothing to prove

And later that week I saw that same girl shopping

at the Trader Joe's on La Brea

She was with a big bomb blonde,

and I wondered if it was her girlfriend

Surprisingly, she came up to me

and smiled and said she loved our meeting

Maybe I judged her wrong

But usually I'm right

I got nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

Once I was as miserable as you

Nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

I got nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

Once I was as miserable as you

Nothing to prove

Nothing to prove

I got nothing to prove