This song goes more like this... I'm not sure on one bit [?]marked like so[/?]
Take a look at your haircut. You're killing me.
Take a look at your glasses. You're killing me.
Placement of the piercings. You're killing me.
Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Take a look at your ripped jeans. You're killing me.
Take a look at your Converse. You're killing me.
Get a shirt that fits you. You're killing me.
Right. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Someone the other day was telling me about marketing and how it is so important for a band to sell a t-shirt.
I told him that the money goes right back into the same thing and now we're just a breeding ground for more and more consumers.
And sellout, shmellout, it's not about that. But all my problems seem to stem from cash.
I got my beliefs and I don't care if they're right but every time [?] I get them out [/?] they always seem to get me in a fight
Soon we'll be in the clear
When we get out of here
Where style is function
And our egos make us fight.
For now we'll live in fear.
We're not sexy enough for this atmosphere.
Someone blow it up tonight.
Please blow it up tonight.
Take a look at your haircut. You're killing me.
Take a look at your glasses. You're killing me.
Placement of the piercings. You're killing me.
Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Take a look at your ripped jeans. You're killing me.
Take a look at your Converse. You're killing me.
Get a shirt that fits you. You're kidding me.
Right. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Williamsburg has got the lights turned low and a moron with a laptop is calling this poetry.
A singer with a thrift amp brags "Vintage Circuitry".
I saw him on the cover of Bop or Seventeen: "I'm so lonely/Life is empty/Where's my coke and ing money?"
Tonight at the bar I got a good look at the enemy: "I'm too ing cool, someone else can write the songs for me."
Soon we'll be in the clear
When we get out of here
Where style is function
And our egos make us fight.
For now we'll live in fear.
We're not sexy enough for this atmosphere.
Someone blow it up tonight.
Please blow it up tonight.
Now we're cloning sheep.
Writing garbage in their diaries.
Reading their AP. Watching Fuse TV.
Kill it, c'est la vie.
Fashion show equals your scene.
Bomb the industry.
Then run away or watch the blast.
I'm getting out so kiss my ass.
I'm going nowhere, nowhere fast.
I'm going nowhere nowhere nowhere.
This song goes more like this... I'm not sure on one bit [?]marked like so[/?]
Take a look at your haircut. You're killing me. Take a look at your glasses. You're killing me. Placement of the piercings. You're killing me. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Take a look at your ripped jeans. You're killing me. Take a look at your Converse. You're killing me. Get a shirt that fits you. You're killing me. Right. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Someone the other day was telling me about marketing and how it is so important for a band to sell a t-shirt. I told him that the money goes right back into the same thing and now we're just a breeding ground for more and more consumers. And sellout, shmellout, it's not about that. But all my problems seem to stem from cash. I got my beliefs and I don't care if they're right but every time [?] I get them out [/?] they always seem to get me in a fight
Soon we'll be in the clear When we get out of here Where style is function And our egos make us fight. For now we'll live in fear. We're not sexy enough for this atmosphere. Someone blow it up tonight. Please blow it up tonight.
Take a look at your haircut. You're killing me. Take a look at your glasses. You're killing me. Placement of the piercings. You're killing me. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Take a look at your ripped jeans. You're killing me. Take a look at your Converse. You're killing me. Get a shirt that fits you. You're kidding me. Right. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Williamsburg has got the lights turned low and a moron with a laptop is calling this poetry. A singer with a thrift amp brags "Vintage Circuitry". I saw him on the cover of Bop or Seventeen: "I'm so lonely/Life is empty/Where's my coke and ing money?" Tonight at the bar I got a good look at the enemy: "I'm too ing cool, someone else can write the songs for me."
Soon we'll be in the clear When we get out of here Where style is function And our egos make us fight. For now we'll live in fear. We're not sexy enough for this atmosphere. Someone blow it up tonight. Please blow it up tonight.
Now we're cloning sheep. Writing garbage in their diaries. Reading their AP. Watching Fuse TV.
Kill it, c'est la vie. Fashion show equals your scene. Bomb the industry. Then run away or watch the blast. I'm getting out so kiss my ass. I'm going nowhere, nowhere fast. I'm going nowhere nowhere nowhere.