jack

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 awaySo 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 Tortured-artist college-rock and floor-punching macho pabulum Back to the Motor League I go Once thought I drew a lucky hand Turned out to be a live grenadeOh my god! Holy shit!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 highlight Trip-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 And as I'm suffering your perfection it reminds me of my own race To redress my own sad history of: Mouthed feet Eaten hats Teated bulls Amish phone-books Drunken brawlsBut what have we here? 15 years later it still reeks of swill and Chickenshit Conformists With their fists in the air Like-father, like-son "rebels" bloated on korn, eminems and bizkits. Lord, hear our prayer: Take back your Amy Grant mosh-crews and fair-weather politics. Blow-dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed. Back to the Motor League Back to the Motor League Back to the Motor LeagueI guess life is just a popularity contest Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands selling shoes for venture-capitalists, silencing competing messages, Rounding off the jagged edges