Such good fucking music!
I like to party fucking hard.
I like my rock and roll the same.
Dont give a fuck if I burn out.
Dont give a fuck if I fade away.
So back to the Motor League with me before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public who live vicariously through tourted-artist college-rock and floor-puching macho pabulum.
Back to the Motor League I go.
Once thought I drew a lucky hand.
Turned out to be a live genade of play-acting "anarchist" and Mommy's-little-skin heads, death-threats and sycophants and wieners drunk on straight-edge.
Fuck off.
Who cares?
I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Ticks than listen to your bullshit.
Fuck off.
Who carse about your stupid scenes, shitty zines, the straw-man you build up to burn.
It never ceases to amaze me and as I'm suffering your perfecion it reminds me of my own race to redress my own sad history of mouthed feet.
Eaten gats.
Teated bulls.
Amish phone-books.
Drunken Brawls.
But what have we here?
15 years later it still reeks of 'Swill and Chickenshit Conformist with their fists in the air; like-father like-son "rebels" bloated on korn, eminems, and bizkits.
Lord, hears our praysers: take back your Amy Grant mosh-crews and your fair-weather politics.
Blow dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed.
Back to the Motor League.
I guess life is just a popularity contest.
Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience. Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Can rock bands selling shoes for venture-capitaliat, silencing competing messages, rounding off the jagged edges.
Today is a good day to die
I like my rock and roll the same.
Dont give a fuck if I burn out.
Dont give a fuck if I fade away.
So back to the Motor League with me before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public who live vicariously through tourted-artist college-rock and floor-puching macho pabulum.
Back to the Motor League I go.
Once thought I drew a lucky hand.
Turned out to be a live genade of play-acting "anarchist" and Mommy's-little-skin heads, death-threats and sycophants and wieners drunk on straight-edge.
Fuck off.
Who cares?
I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Ticks than listen to your bullshit.
Fuck off.
Who carse about your stupid scenes, shitty zines, the straw-man you build up to burn.
It never ceases to amaze me and as I'm suffering your perfecion it reminds me of my own race to redress my own sad history of mouthed feet.
Eaten gats.
Teated bulls.
Amish phone-books.
Drunken Brawls.
But what have we here?
15 years later it still reeks of 'Swill and Chickenshit Conformist with their fists in the air; like-father like-son "rebels" bloated on korn, eminems, and bizkits.
Lord, hears our praysers: take back your Amy Grant mosh-crews and your fair-weather politics.
Blow dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed.
Back to the Motor League.
I guess life is just a popularity contest.
Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience. Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Can rock bands selling shoes for venture-capitaliat, silencing competing messages, rounding off the jagged edges.
Today is a good day to die