While y'all are stacking dollars I am stacking up my records. Got no dough, got no friends, but hell no I'm no beggar. I'm just fine, don't need your cash, I'm on my bike, that's class, riding home with my LP's, oh fuck, I forgot my sleeves! No big deal, it's ok, what difference does it make? I don't care about the looks, I like the sounds that it creates. I like the splits, the EPs, the full lengths and the 10 inches. Now insert a stupid joke about my dick being 10 inches.
So fuck you, get out of here, unless you wanna drink a beer, sit on the bed, relax, act like a couple of misfits, read along with the lyrics, relate to them and try to get the meaning but whatever that is, make sure that you get the same feeling. Always. Let's work out our issues, open up a box of tissues while we listen to reissues of Veni, Vidi, Vicious. Yeah. Let’s do that, let’s get wrecked.
I wanna find love, and listen to punk rock but instead I gotta find a job and listen to my boss. It sucks. I gotta get some records from my shop and check the internet for all of the new stuff. Ten bucks a piece, adds up, plus shipping costs. It’s a lot, but I want it tomorrow in my mailbox. I wanna unwrap it, spin it and dance to it. Put it on my shelf so everyone can glance at it. Dangit.
I'd rather turn on my player cause I’m not a player with people I don't care about, man, I don't wanna go outside,
I got these tunes and I got REVIEWS TO WRITE.
I’d rather be working with InDesign than work for the man and colour within the lines. Man, I don’t wanna go outside. I got a bunch of INTERVIEWS THAT I GOTTA TRANSCRIBE.