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!

Play-acting "anarchists"

and Mommy's-little-skinheads,

Death-threats and sycophants a

nd wieners drunk on straight-edge.

Fuck off Who cares?

I'd rather highlight Trip-Tiks

than listen to your bullshit.

Fuck off Who cares- a

bout 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