No, please, no thank you
Just do what the music's supposed to do,
And make things bleed
We're made of meat
So make me bleed, you bastard.
What do I look like, the goddam fashion police?
Don't "inform me" of how strictly
You've kept things old school or hardcore
You've simply un-pressed re-record
You're just a tourist, clear and simple
Bad tattoos on old and wrinkled assholes
Are you so thick?
Corrupt the masses, you pricks!
Try arming yourself with a brick,
A cocktail, or something
A little bit more
Than these same old goddamn, fucking three chords
I wanna fight dance with the pirate punks
They've hijacked my originals
They've taped over all
All of the good stuff
They've done nothing but repeat
And then copied.