Safe. So safe. So safe that we don’t mean a goddamn thing. There is no more danger, there’s no more danger here. We’re safe. A waste. We’re no longer something to fear. There’s so much left to sing about, there’s so much more to say. But we say less and less with each passing day. I thought we’d break down walls. I thought we’d rise above. That we’d conquer the world. That what we did was secret. Fuck a pretty product. And fuck a pretty tune. This is ugly fucking music from an ugly fucking room. We have stopped our digging. There’s no more underground. We sing: nothing, regurgitated gimmicky sounds. All our ears are plugged with the hottest of hot air. And we might actually make a difference if only we would ever dare. We just sing the same old shit. I won’t let us fool ourselves. I won’t keep up the charade. We could do so much more. Change much more than we’ve changed. Your mohawk don’t mean a thing. Your studded belt don’t mean a thing. And your test press don’t mean a goddamn thing to me. Punk rock don’t mean a thing. Punk rock don’t mean a thing. Punk rock don’t mean a goddamn thing to me. Can you use your brain? We can. Can you start to think? We can. Can you raise your voice? Can you be dangerous? Yes, we can.
In warm-hearted houses the fireplace is always bright. And it’s always Christmas Eve, dreaming of white Christmas nights. Candles twinkle love: like stars stolen from the sky, making houses happy. Who cares about the world outside? Johnny gets good grades and Daddy gets great head. Maria raised the kids; Mommy just tucks them into bed. The TV’s on from nine to five every single day. Their water’s pure and their god is good, as long as they obey. Somewhere beneath the malls, under miles of tax returns, hidden behind a white picket fence, and masked by what they earn. Cloistered by the walls of stucco mansions and expensive cars. The foundation’s made of shit and what you have is all you are.
3) Did You Just Say “Faggot”?
I call shenanigans. We should know better. We should know better. We should know better. We should know better. We should know better than this by now.
4) Neo Neo-Nazis (Stop F.ucking S.hit U.p)
I came, I saw them smash that chair over his head. And I, I thought that he was dead. But we should not, can not, will not accept this anymore. There’s right and wrong. And now a line is drawn. Stop fucking shit up. Stop fucking shit up. Stop fucking shit up. Stop fucking shit up. We’re gonna get beat up (and it’ll only prove our point). Stop fucking shit up. Stop fucking shit up. Stop fucking shit up. (Please) stop fucking shit up. And what they call righteous, I call right. And we know that they aren’t right. They’re wrong, wrong, wrong. And the only thing that they will ever flex is their macho, macho arms; their manly, manly pecs. But they will never, ever flex their goddamned heads. So flex your head. Stop fucking shit up.
5) I Like The Way You Look, But I Don’t Like You
Turn your tassels baby, and spread your tan-lined legs. Pinning paper hearts on designer clothes is just so fucking teenage. Love me do, he loves me not. Deep in love with love. Oh, sweet romantic thoughts. Laugh and dance through sweet romance, and cherry-pop your way to popularity. Turn your tassels baby, and spread your tan-lined legs. Snort lines of coke through a plastic nose, and purge, purge, purge away. Beauty so skin deep leaves only shallowness as the popular decay. The high school known sit on a flimsy throne, and abort their lives each day. And you sing to yourself on repeat: I love me, me, me.
They rape what we love. “These kids, they have no clue where their cash is going to. I’ll sit back, I’ll have the last of laughs, I’ll rape the thing they love.” They rape what we love. Bright lights. Fifteen mics. Process-fee what’s ours away. No stage is the only stage for me. No stage is the only stage for me. No stage is the only stage for me. No stage is the only stage for me. Eat my shit.
7) Stella Lost Her Grooves
So this is goodbye. I never thought I’d see this day, I never thought it’d be this way. This ain’t a phase. They’ll never know just what you meant to us, they won’t even know that you’re gone. This ain’t a phase. No, to all of them this was just a phase; they won’t ever know they were wrong. Hell no, this ain’t a phase. Here’s one for the record books: another tale of small town woe. This city squeezes until we just can’t breathe, until we’ve got no place left to go. Just 13-years old. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to turn, still so much left to learn. So I found my purpose in those liner notes, that tiny room. In stacks of records we trust, god bless those sacred grooves. Hell no, this ain’t a phase. I’m going to stay this way. They can’t evict this place from inside me. You may be gone but you won’t ever be forgotten. Here’s one for the record store. Hell no, this ain’t a phase. I’m going to stay this way. No place has ever meant more. You may be gone but you won’t ever be forgotten. They may close your doors. They may shut you down. But they can never kill this rebel sound. Your gift to me is my gift to you.