Tekst:
Bomb The Music Industry

Mold and mice and stolen bikes and a van everybody wants to break into. Dirty halls and holey walls. And a door I'm afraid I can't buzz you in through

Cold face, cold legs. Walk three blocks and pay two bucks. One bold sign: Interference on the line, waiting twenty minutes time every time. Transfer

They won't go away. I don't think I've seem 'em blink at all. They all know my name and they're waiting for me to fall on my face as I attempt to have

There?s nothing less cool than feeling exhausted from hours of not doing a damn thing at all. Not thrilling to chill, steal bandwidth and cable, give

I know what it looks like, the ship?s not capsizing. The driver?s just drunk or asleep at the wheel. The map is illegible, we spilled beers all over it

rather break three strings a song then stick to a routine like I?m ripe for the picking after growing on a tree and then talk about the industry, cross

out, okay? Even twenty bucks could have fixed this up. A gesture. SOMETHING. We?ll feel super posi when there?s sugar in your gas tank, stink bombs

You took a little every day until I didn?t have shit. Two years off and on and not even the chance to quit, just a letter on a fridge that I got from

takeover DOES help me sleep alright. Do you think Bush thanks God for 9/11 so he can feel justified? Yeah, the dreams I mentioned earlier all involve falling bombs