Would you exist without all the fists the music clenched for you.
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You're dressed up like a full-bodied anarchist.
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Right down to your views. It's more than points that break.
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There's no threat. Little promise to your life, so you take it out on music.
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Your talk is cheap, I don't want to hear it.
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Go preach to your fucking choir. You piss and moan for what's no longer your own.
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You're pissing on the motives of my friends.
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I understand what you're saying, what you're going through, but your point never ends.
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The ticket price. The songs that you write.
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"We've got out eyes on you. The internet is just a minute away. I'm telling on you."
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You Suck! But Your Peanut Butter Is OK
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| None More Black |
