I like to party ****ing hard
I like my rock and roll the same
Don't give a **** if 
I burn out
Don't give a **** if 
I fade away.
So back to the 
Motor League with mewho live vicariously throughbefore 
I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying publictortured-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 grenadeof play-acting "anarchists"and 
Mommy's-little-skinheads, death-threats and sycophantsand wieners drunk on straight-edge.
Who cares?
**** off.I'd rather hi-lite 
Trip-Tiks than listen to your bullshit.
Who cares**** off....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 sufferingyour perfection it reminds me of my own racemouthed feetto redress my own sad history of
Teated bulls
Amish phone-books
Eaten hats
Drunken brawls.
But what have we here?15 years later it still reeks of '
Swill and 
Chickenshit 
Conformistswith 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 andyour fair-weather politics.Blow-dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed.I guess life is just a popularity contest.Back to the Motor League.Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience.Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands selling shoesrounding off the jagged edgesfor venture-capitalists, silencing competing messages,