I like to party fucking hard
I like my rock and roll the same
Don't give a fuck if I burn out
Don't give a fuck if I fade away

So back to the Motor League with me
Before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public
Who live vicariously through
Tortured-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 grenade

(Oh my god, holy shit)

Of play-acting "anarchists"
And Mommy's-little-skinheads
Death-threats and sycophants
And wieners drunk on straight-edge

Fuck off!
Who cares?

I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Tiks than listen to your bullshit
Fuck off!
Who cares?

About your stupid scenes, your shitty zines
The straw-men you build up to burn

Never ceases to amaze
And as I'm suffering your perfection it reminds me of my own race
To redress my own sad history of
Mouthed feet
Eaten hats
Teated bulls
Amish phone-books
Drunken brawls

But what have we here?
15 years later, it still reeks of swill and chickenshit conformists
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 and your fair-weather politics
Blow-dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed
Back to the Motor League

I guess life is just a popularity contest
Success, just ability to perform within a framework of obedience
Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands
Selling shoes for venture-capitalists
Silencing competing messages
Rounding off the jagged edges
(stock personnel, front checkouts, front checkouts, stock personnel)