Tekst piosenki
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)
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