Whose house this is I think I know.
The cops are in the village though;
They will not see us breaking in
To party, sheltered from the snow.

My buddies number fifty here;
All smoking weed and chugging beer
And acting like obnoxious punks
This final weekend of the year.

We wreck the place and burn some chairs
Then trash a bunch of rooms upstairs.
We play beer pong until we barf.
We're under-age; so what, who cares?

Screw quaint, historic domiciles,
With peace and quiet for miles and miles.
We'll all be tried as juveniles,
We'll all be tried as juveniles.