Propagandhi Back to the Motor League Letras:
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 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 Trip-Tiks
than listen to your bullshit. Fuck off. Who cares
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about your stupid scenes, your shitty zines, the
straw-men you build up to burn. It never ceases to
amaze me 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 eSwill
and Chickenshit Conformists with their fists in
the air; like-father, like-son "rebelsi bloated on
korn, eminems 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. Today is good day to die.
Letras: Back to the Motor League Propagandhi [final]