Lyrics

Shock and awe has hushed you; created all the rules.
Assemble from the lungs the staples that you hold.
You wanna say it – it’s time to strike.
Not at the bottom of bottles. They say our music is dead – dead, dead, dead, dead.
We placate them with nostalgia. Nostagia or desertion? Either way, our future – dead, dead, dead, dead.
So if you’ve got self-disclaimers, shut your mouth. Or raise your voice.