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The Punks Are Dead
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The Punks Are Dead Sitting in an empty room with a uniform of leather Knowing it’s the best I can do and nothing will be getting better Having seizures in the rhythm to the record I was playing Voices in my head resumed, I swear I heard them saying: . Don’t listen… the punks are dead Don’t listen… the punks are dead . Hoping that the fantasies most malicious are forgotten Now I’m stuck with a random list of the most vicious and rotten Can’t stand another night under the tyranny of boredom The urges say to stay alive, though I think I should ignore them . Don’t listen… the punks are dead Don’t listen… the punks are dead . Something lurking deep inside Wants to strangle you And you know you cannot hide So there’s nothing you can do And all the battles you fought before Against society Are eclipsed by a raging war With your own sobriety ‘Til there’s nothing left for me Just the petty theft of me And there’s nothing left of me No, nothing left for me . It was all a teenage wasteland, self-absorbed and pious Anarchists now receiving letters from Her Royal Highness Just slide the note right under the door in the form of a<b> dirty </font></b>poem Don’t bother knocking anymore because you know there’s no one home . Don’t listen… the punks are dead Don’t listen… the punks are dead |
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