Paroles de Back To The Motor League
I like to party fucking hardI 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 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 grenade
Oh 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 Amish phone-books
Drunken brawls
But 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 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-Cam rock-bands
selling shoes for venture-capitalists,
silencing competing messages,
Rounding off the jagged edges
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 grenade
Oh 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 Amish phone-books
Drunken brawls
But 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 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-Cam rock-bands
selling shoes for venture-capitalists,
silencing competing messages,
Rounding off the jagged edges
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