Lyrics Side Projects are Never Successful - Bomb The Music Industry!

Side Projects are Never Successful

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