Propaganda Duel Lyrics

Duel Lyrics

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 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 ‘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. 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.