Back to the Motor League

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 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) 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-lite 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 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 brawls But what have we here? 15 years later it still reeks of swill and chickenshit conformists Fists in the air; Like-father, like-son, rebels bloated on Korn, Eminemss and Bizkits Lord, hear our prayer 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-Cam rock-bands selling shoes For venture-capitalists, silencing competing messages Rounding off the jagged edges (stock personnel, front checkouts, front checkouts, stock personnel)