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Lost the confidence to write a song |
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So I found three simple chords and held them together with my weak voice |
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On an out of tune guitar my father gave to me |
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And may Elvis turn in his grave |
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And Les Paul kiss my dirty, calloused fingers |
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And may the likes of this song never make one fucking dollar |
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Leave it for a demo tape to be played until it's broken, then remembered only for what it was |
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That we gave them hell |
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That we gave them hell |
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That we gave them hell |
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To my friends and enemies who could have been anything |
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Titans and heroes who found survival in cause and effect |
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Behind counters, behind windows, striving just to be people |
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With bitter ideals of justice |
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Do we only need to keep working because it pays rent? |
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Sleeping under plastic stars glued to ceiling |
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Muscles burning alcohol and nicotine every morning |
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But we gave them hell |
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But we gave them hell |
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But we gave them hell |
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There's a height beyond skyscrapers |
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There's a distance beyond the freeway |
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More than pictures in a magazine |
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More than tragedy in a rock and roll song |
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It's more than actions you know are safe to make |
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It's more than money could ever buy |
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Are we living to work and die in American cities? |
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And working to live and die in American cities? |
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And dying for what we worked |
