c7
I like to party fucking hard. i like my rock and roll the same. don’t give a fuck if
i burn out. don’t give a fuck if i fade away. so back to the motor-league with me
before i’m forced to face t
c7
Ath of a well-heeled buying public who live vicariously through tortured-artist
college-rock and floor-punching macho pabulum. back to the motor league i go. once
thought i drew a lucky hand. tu
c7
Out to be a live grenade of play-acting «anarchists» and
mommy’s-little-skinheads, death-threats and sycophants and wieners drunk on
straight-edge. fuck off. who cares? i’d rather hi-l
c6
Rip-tiks than listen to your bullshit. fuck off. who cares about your stupid scenes,
your shitty zines, the straw-men you build up to burn. it never ceases to amaze me
and as i’m suffering your
c7
Ction it reminds me of my own race to redress my own sad history of mouthed feet.
eaten hats. teated bulls. amish phone-books. drunken brawls. but what have we here?
15 years later it still reek
2b
Ў®swill and chickenshit conformists wi
c7
Th their fists in the air; like-father, like-son «rebelsЎ± bloated on korn,
eminems and bizkits. lord, hear our prayer: take back your amy grant mosh-crews and
your fair-weather politics. b
c7
Ry 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-c
95
Joy-cam rock-bands selling shoes for venture-capitalists, silencing competing
messages, rounding off the jagged edges. today is good day to die.
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