Side Projects are Never Successful - Bomb The Music Industry!

It was a hot June day, and my ass was sticking to the seat of my girlfriend’s

car

Staten Island traffic in the summer, baby

And when you stuff yourself into a suit and tie

Do you think the judge can see through the sweat

As he gives you your fine for a post-panic attack speeding ticket

On a 90 degree day in New York

And yeah, you’re gonna drive home for three hours

To work in a basement for tribute bands making posters

To pay about a fifth of that price

It’s just Staten Island traffic in the summer.

Oh!

That orange ball

That burning orb of fire in the sky is gonna explode and we’re all gonna die!

Except for the foolish few who will «think ahead»

And drive their SUV’s to their bomb shelters

Complaining about no air conditioning

Because «baby, we ain’t got no more electricity.»

They wanna rise when it’s done, be a leader with a gun

Be a leader of what?

Like a hundred and one?

Well, fuck it, I’m gonna hang out on the rooftop when it comes

Cause when it’s dark, it’ll be night time, baby

And I’ll get my ass on up out of this mess

The only stores that are open, baby

They gonna sell beer, and they’re gonna sell ice cream

And we’ll drink drink drink and get drunk drunk drunk

And we’ll talk talk talk about how much fun we had, yeah, when

We were fuckin' the world

Through the glares on our windshields, we can’t see each others eyes

Just McDonalds cups and wrappers that they’re throwing at full speed

And yes, I long for a shadow.

And yes, I always appreciate the irony

That the only cool comfort that allows us to see is a goddamn billboard.

Sing it with me

A BILLBOARD IS THE ONLY THING PREVENTING US FROM BLINDLY CRASHING

And we’ll never see a city not marred by advertisements

And we’ll NEVER have a future not working for those companies

And it’s sure as shit not getting better so we might as well accept it now, oh

And that really doesn’t cheapen anything because, baby, we’re all born to be

businessmen

Every Fugazi record has a catalog number and a price tag and every independent

label is selling you another goddamn product

But, NO, WE’RE not slaves to the music (no, no, no)

Oh no, WE’RE not slaves to the company, baby (no, no, no)

We do what we’re born and raised to do and when you create something

You’re producing something and that act of producing is the creation of a

product

Cause when it’s night, it’ll be night time, baby

And I’ll get my ass on up out of this mess

The the only stores that are open, baby

They gonna sell beer, and they’re gonna sell ice cream

And we’ll drink drink drink and get drunk drunk drunk

And we’ll talk talk talk about how much fun we had, yeah, when

We were fuckin' the world

Yeah, we were fucking the world

Yeah, we were fu (fu) cking (cking) the (the) world (world)

When the sun drops, you ain’t gonna be hungover the next day

When the comet hits, you ain’t gonna have no bills to pay

When the bomb hits, it’s gonna be a four day weekend.

Hey hey!

When it’s all done I’m gonna feel great finally

And when I finally got to work today

I ate my Subway sandwich

And I drank my Coca-Cola Classic

And then I ate my Sunchips

And I thought about the weekend

When I’d fill up my Ford van

With Mobil brand gas

And drive to the Clear Channel venue

And I’d drink myself a Budweiser

And play my Fender guitar

Through my Fender amplifier

And tell the kids with a straight face

Through a Shure microphone

And JBL speakers that corporate rock is for suckers

Uh, yeah