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 

Who live vicariously through 

Before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public 

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. 



Who cares? 

Fuck off. 

I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Tiks than listen to your bullshit. 



Who cares 



Fuck off. 

...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 

Mouthed feet 

To redress my own sad history of 

Teated bulls 

Amish phone-books 

Eaten hats



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 

Your fair-weather politics. 

Blow-dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed. 

I guess life is just a popularity contest. 



Back to the Motor League. 

Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience. 

Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands selling shoes 

Rounding off the jagged edgesfor venture-capitalists, silencing competing messages,