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!
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 TripTiks 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 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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