50 FUCKING YEARS/Got a letter in the mail today plotting our demise in detail. They’re gonna turn our punk houses into brand new dormitories. What a pretty little story. Harvard’s got a fifty-year plan. The waters up to our necks and it only gets worse from here. Our little scene will disappear. Flat-brim hats and pencil-beards and it only gets worse from here. The end is drawing near. Fifty fucking years! The floodgates are knocked down, a sea of crimson all around It’s so hard to stay afloat when they’re paying to watch you drown. What a pretty little story…. Another day, another inch, and our pockets feel the pinch. Fuck your wolf’s grin and sheep’s eyes, free seminars, consolation prizes. Get your brochures out of my mailbox or rest assured you’ll get a cinderblock through every last window. (Who am I kidding?) Just wishful thinking. Where the fuck are we gonna go now?
BETTER OFF DEAD: THE MOVIE: THE SONG/Rock bottom, head hurts, hungover, bad decisions, work ’til seven, count the register, ride home, yell at cars, two forties, Digger records, teaspoon of NyQuil, stare at the ceiling, call mom, feel guilty, side B of Tim, pass the fuck out, depressed as fuck.
NIGHT SWEATS/Kenny was a nice guy from a small town in Illinois, had a penchant for his night job and spending time alone. Never found the right one, never settled down. Another small-town prom king insecure under his crown. Always had a feeling that something wasn’t right, standing in the mirror trying on his mother’s tights– and it’s not funny. In 1980 he moved away. Heard of a place called San Francisco where he could go be gay. The night clubs were a fantasy, the poppers and the fisting, but he hadn’t really planned on the coppers fucking with him in the park. Beaten to the ground, as they bloodied him he didn’t make a sound. Dear Ken, wheelchair bound: nighttime sweats and diarrhea, a new disease that no one feared yet– how could they? After a lifetime of abuse. It’s not denial when you’ve been living in a closet forty years. It’s called survival. When society sweeps you underneath the carpet. When you’ve been rendered a barely moving target.
FOOTBRIDGE BLUES (This one’s an instrumental!)
CHUNG KING CAN SUCK IT CAN SUCK IT/The government’s bailing out billionaires. We’re getting drunk ’cause no one cares (and we don’t want them to). Yesterday’s frat boys are today’s executives. The money didn’t trickle down, but the horseshit did. You spent a thousand fucking dollars on a test-press so don’t tell me it’s not a just another commodity. You’re a commodity and you want to be. Your band’s a brand trying to make money. Your bottom line is their dollarsign. Your bottom line is their dollarsign, but we’re just trying to get by, we’re just trying to survive. So go fuck yourself. I hope you die! And I’m not sorry our basements weren’t big enough for you. Grab that pen, sign to that major label offshoot. Maybe then you’ll realize I still don’t care.
