In Defense Of The Genre

Can't you see, my dear, what you create is greater than great

It's beautiful and valid

Go tell the false friend, who doubts your art:

"Hey, toss my caustic salad!"

Their noise pollution is a one-night stand

A closet corporate ballad

Compose the theme, compose the theme

That seems to haunt the sultan's dreams

Yes their truth is a lie, a sickly, sober sky

Don't you dare lie down your sword and die, oh small fry

Crime of the century, know what it meant to me

They'll label us what they can never be

Hate me but I am in your heart pulling it apart

Burning up a black hole

All those magazines and stifled teens

Whose trite teething is outdated

Have miniscule minds of clay in need of chiseling away

This war's been reinstated

So spit a wad in the face of their fucking flawless race

And all they've consecrated

I won't believe the twisted web they weave

They can stitch you silent now, or bitch the violence out

I'm disavowed, I'm proud to shun their know-how

The wolf begat the lamb, now it's in his hands

I'm reeling from a feeling that they've banned

Our last stand goes: Hallelujah, love lost

I've got an empty wallet and a record cover

The stage, hot and worn like an aging lover

So I spew a comet of verbal vomit

Sacreligious, of Christ or Islamic

It's full of piss and they'll never stop

Come on and kill the kindly ones

The ever blinding ones

We stand and face you now, we will not run

Just you wait and see where your lemming line leads