A Warehouse Full Of Mailbombs, And Not One Fucking Stamp
Fuck your speeches to me of sacrifice, or anything I believed in, (of inspiration) end of fucking change. Your two hour rants on who we all should blame. Deaf to this world, and dead in my eyes, I watch as another toy soldier dies. Fuck your revolution.
And if you didn't hear me, we'll scream it once again. (and again and again). One fucking song doesn't start the fucking riot. It doesn't matter how many kids buy it. Fingers in the air.
(gun to the head) The one's who screamed for a change? They're the ones all fucking dead. Your t-shirts, your pins, your patches won't work. They all won't win this war. So far from over, so far from done.
Fuck your message boards, nothing's fucking won. So fuck you. Talk of broken bones, let's talk of blood on the floor. Let's talk of all those days gone by and how we strive for more. Talk of anything. Anything but your fucking revolution. We throw these words away like the time that we've wasted.
And a fest every weekend, is not 'inspiration' I'm not buying this, and I'm not dying here. I'm not part of your empire. The broken streetlights don't need to be fixed for us to see the kids are burning alive. I've said it before, I'll say it again. I'll say it till the day I fucking die. Fuck your Revolution.
(Are you using these fests, this merch table, these songs to sell your revolution? Or are you another in a long line of bullshit artists that is here to make a quick buck? It's getting harder to tell which is which. You can't keep a poker face forever, champ.)
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