He hit the ground running,
At the speed of light.
The star was brightly shining,
Like a neon light.

It's your favorite son.
It's your favorite son.

A fixture on the talk shows,
To the silver screen.
From here to Colorado,
He's a sex machine.

It's your favorite son.
It's your favorite son.

But isn't it a drag?
Isn't it a drag?
Isn't it a drag?
It's pretty bloody sad,
But isn't it a drag?

A clean-cut All-American,
Really ain't so clean.
His royal auditorium,
Is a murder scene.

It's your favorite son.
It's your favorite son.
Oh, isn't it a drag?
Isn't it a drag?
Isn't it a drag?
It's pretty bloody sad,
But isn't it a drag?

Well no one says it's fair.
Turn a teenage lush,
To a millionaire.

Now where's your fuckin' champion?
On a bed you laid.
He's not the All-American,
That you thought you paid.

It's your favorite son.
It's your favorite son.
But isn't it a drag?



Lyrics submitted by SongMeanings

Track duration: 02:40

"Favorite Son [*]" as written by Billie Joe/wright Iii Armstrong

Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.

Lyrics powered by LyricFind


Favorite Son [*] song meanings
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