Propagandhi Lyrics
  • How to Clean Everything
  • How to Clean a Couple O' Things
  • I'd Rather Be Flag Burning
  • Where Quality Is Job #1
  • Yep
  • Letter of Resignation
  • Less Talk, More Rock


    How to Clean Everything
  • Anti-manifesto
  • Head? Chest? or Foot?
  • Hate, Myth, Muscle, Etiquette
  • Showdown
  • Ska Sucks
  • Middle Finger Response
  • Stick the fucking flag up your goddam ass, you sonofabitch
  • Haillie Sellasse, up your ass
  • Fuck Machine
  • This might be Satire
  • Who will help me bake this bread?
  • I want you to want me


    How to Clean a Couple O' Things
  • Pigs Will Pay
  • Stick the Fucking Flag Up Your Goddam Ass, You Sonofabitch


    I'd Rather Be Flag Burning
  • The Cryptically-Entitled Mutual Friend... Deep? No.
  • ...And We Thought That Nation-States Were a Bad Idea
  • The About-as-close-to-emo-as-we'll-ever-get Song
  • I Would Very Much Like To See What Happened In Oka In 1990 Happen Everywhere
  • The Tastefully Entitled Haillie Does Hebron
  • Remain
  • Just Between Friends
  • No Exchange
  • T.I.Y.
  • *No Title*
  • Sixty Billion Served
  • Appliances And Cars


    Where Quality Is Job #1
  • Kill Bill Harcus
  • Support Gun Control
  • Gov't Cartoons
  • White Proud And Stupid
  • Leghold Trap
  • Bent
  • Fine Day
  • Who Will Help Me Bake This Bread
  • Hidden Curriculum
  • Die For The Flag


    Yep
  • Firestorm, My Ass/(Liquid) Meat Is Still Murder
  • Stick The Fucking Flag Up Your Ass You Goddamn Sonofabitch
  • ...And We Thought That Nation-States Were a Bad Idea
  • Fuck Machine
  • Less Talk, More Rock
  • Middle Finger Response
  • The Woe Is Me I'm So Misunderstood Song
  • Gifts
  • Anti-Manifesto
  • Everyone Get Naked Song


    Letter of Resignation Side A:
    F.Y.P:
    Mate Like Porcupines
    Dinky Bossetti
    Glamourettes
    Side B:
    Propagandhi:
  • Letter of Resignation


    Less Talk, More Rock
  • Apparently, I'm a "P.C. Fascist" (Because I care about both human and non-human animals)
  • Nailing Descartes to the Wall/ (Liquid)Meat is Still Murder
  • Less Talk, More Rock
  • Anchorless
  • Rio de San Atlanta, Manitoba
  • A Public Dis-service Announcement From Shell
  • ...And We Thought That Nation-States Were a Bad Idea
  • I Was a Pre-teen McCarthyist
  • Resisting Tyrannical Government
  • Gifts
  • The Only Good Fascist is a Very Dead Fascist
  • A People's History of the World
  • The State-Lottery
  • Refusing to Be a Man


    Anti-manifesto Dance and laugh and play. Ignore the message we convey.
    It seems we're only here to entertain.
    A rebellion cut-to-fit. I refuse to be the soundtrack to it.
    While we entertain we're still knee-deep in shit.
    There's something wrong inside.
    We've played it safe, enjoyed the ride.
    You won't like this but I've something to confide.
    We stand for something more than a faded sticker on a skateboard.
    Now we've rained on your parade and we're out the door.
    And I don't even care any fucking more.
    Witness this pair in accomplice.
    Witness this pair; lethargic, unconscious.
    No brows furrowed in question, complacent, completing their tasks
    (no questions asked)
    Consider this critic a cretin,
    Just resting on laurels completely invented.
    Word acrobatics performed with both harness and net.
    I am so full of shit.
    But I will remain until this self-awareness fades
    Until I defeat the purpose of this soapbox that you made.
    That you made.
    Hope, perseverance, a vision (some doubt).
    Green ink, a 26 oz., a bad case of big-mouth.
    A sum of our parts and I've never laughed harder.
    A song in our hearts and I've never laughed harder.
    It don't really matter cuz nothing's ever felt as right as this.
    (by the way, I stole this riff)

    To the Song Index

    Head? Chest? or Foot? Three choices. One bullet. One trigger. Guess who gets to pull it.
    One leader. A thousand slaves.
    For every throne there's a thousand graves.
    You're all the same. Just part of their machine.
    Perpetuate their dream.
    They subsidize your nightclubs and they subsidize your malls.
    They herd and brand the masses within painted prison walls.
    'Til your freedom of assembly becomes the missiles they create.
    Or just mass delusion dancing to this music that you fucking hate.
    But I'm not the same. I'm not part of your fucking machine.
    I'll jeopardize their dream.
    I'd rather be imprisoned in a George Orwell-ian world
    Than your pacified society of happy boys and girls.
    I'd rather know my enemies and let you know the same.
    Whose windows to smash and whose tires to slash
    And where to point the fucking blame.
    One future. Two choices. Oppose them or let them destroy us.

    To the Song Index

    Hate, Myth, Muscle, Etiquette Mark your point of failing. It begins where you concede.
    Hesitate. Procrastinate. Sedating.
    All configured to impede your path.
    You need a good kick in the ass.
    Now take a step back and have a long hard look.
    Hold it to the light and read it like a book.
    Analyze the past and present to see what is to come.
    Now wrap your lips around the barrel of the gun.
    Mark my point of failing. It began where I gave in.
    Comfort. Convenience. Placating.
    Construed to suck me in, to their trap.
    I need a good kick in the ass.
    As time passed I realized we don't need rules to survive.
    Just common sense and means to subsist.
    So from here on in I will resist.
    I've finally realized. I've found my way at last.
    It's finally evident.
    We all need a kick in the ass.
    The basis of change: educate! Derived from discussion,
    not hate, not myth, not muscle, not etiquette.
    Intellect, not "re-elect!".
    Status symbols yield to respect between sex, species, environment.

    To the Song Index

    Showdown We spoke our minds too clearly.
    We assumed fundamental rights were inherent
    not as pawns but humyns.
    I do not require a guage for freedom of speech
    cuz I never asked to be a citizen.
    I never have and never will pledge allegiance.
    Waking up each morning with confusion in my eyes.
    The wind is biting through to wave "hello".
    Seeing my reflection, an exterior of lies.
    I hope this shaky feeling doesn't show.
    As if I had to tell you there was little left to say.
    Stilted conversations colored blue.
    You were sitting down and you got up to walk away.
    I tried to stay but I was right behind you.
    Tension in the stair, I cannot bear so close to helpless
    as this song I sing. Inside me ring.
    Final words are boring, never touch,
    I know you whispered something in my ear.
    I couldn't hear you.
    Girls with the greenest eyes. The first time you have kissed.
    Our quiet softest sighs.
    A song for all of those who shot and missed.
    Welcomed to this world, imputed identity.
    Born, tagged, tattooed, pacified.
    Generously bestowed my rights and priveleges replete.
    Arbitrary values ascribed.
    There's nothing I can tell you. There's nothing I can say.
    Stunted conversation, censored thought.
    I'm completely free, at liberty, guaranteed
    Unless of course you decide I'm not.
    But I'll not be resigned to, fall in line behind you.
    Tension in the air I cannot bear
    So what the fuck am I accomplishing? Absolutely nothing.
    All these words are boring, it's time for action.
    But you've taught me to be a pawn.
    It won't last for long.
    Those who see through the lies are quickly gagged and bound.
    Ambition realized, tear the whole fucking thing down.

    To the Song Index

    Ska Sucks Ska sucks. Ska revival isn't cool you stupid fuck.
    The bands are only in it for the bucks.
    And if you don't believe me you're a schmuck.
    But the trend will die out with any luck.
    Yo Ho. Yo Ho.
    Rudy, a message to you Rudy, a message to you Rudy.
    Fuck you Rudy!

    To the Song Index

    Middle finger response Bowl of cherries in Waskasoo Creek.
    A sylvan way of life for those who seek none beyond a parkland mall.
    This land scape oasis now feigns city hall.
    And they call this peace.
    Not how it seems to me. Sugar-coated disease.
    Buckle at the knees.
    Your members of parliament lining their garments
    With hides of the masses (their heads stuck up their asses).
    Bald little soldiers, flags sewn to their shoulders.
    This insight spawns despair.
    Why am I not part of this?
    Pine cone wealth and cedar fence bliss?
    All your novel themes that keep you amused on your way to
    The Canadian, flag-waving-aryan, mother fucking, cock sucking dream.
    Oh yeah!
    Nobody cares about the state of affairs.
    You can turn blue in the face, but you cannot erase.
    Oblivious to the obvious.
    I'm making perfect sense but I'm not getting through.
    Progress overdue.
    But don't expect to find me with a note left to be read.
    Pistol in my hand and a bullet in my head.
    Because this census indicates and this atlas has related
    3 billion humyns I haven't irritated.
    I've got alot of work to do. 3 billion people.
    That's 3 billion snotty Fuck you's
    Fuck you, fuck all of you.

    To the Song Index

    Stick the fucking flag up your goddam ass, you sonofabitch My father told me "son, it's futile to resist,
    You can topple ideology but not the armies they enlist."
    I questioned the intentions of the boy scouts chanting war.
    "Well that's the sound of freedom, son" he said.
    (Free to say no more.)
    But wait a minute dad, did you actually say freedom?
    Well, if you're dumb enough to vote,
    You're fuckin dumb enough to believe him.
    Cuz if this country is so goddam free,
    Then I can burn your fucking flag wherever I damn well please.
    I carried their anthem, convinces it was mine.
    Rhymeless, unreasoned conjecture kept me in line.
    But then I stood back and wondered what the fuck had they done to me.
    Made accomplice to all that I'd promised I would never fucking be.
    Never be.
    You carry their anthem convinces that it's yours.
    Invitation to honor. Invitation to war.
    Bette Midler now assumes sainthood.
    Romanticize murder for moral.
    Tie a yellow ribbon round the oak tree my friend,
    And "Gee Wally, that's swell!"
    Fuck the troops to hell!

    To the Song Index

    Haillie Sellasse, up your ass You speak of Rastafari, but how can you justify belief
    In a dog that's left you behind?
    You've simply filled the gap between the upper and lower class
    And your faith merely keeps you in line.
    An amalgamation of jewish scripture and christian thought.
    What will that get you? Not a fuck of a lot.
    Take a look at your promised land.
    Your deed is that gun in your hand.
    Mt. Zion's a minefield. The West Bank. The Gaza Strip.
    Soon to be parking lots for American tourists and fascist cops.
    Fuck zionism. Fuck militarism. Fuck americanism.
    Fuck nationalism. Fuck religion.

    To the Song Index

    Fuck Machine It's something physical, conditioned reaction.
    It's something physical, conditioned attraction.
    But have I finally escaped?
    Will my eyes no longer rape the innocent womyn, children, humyn beings?
    Seeing the pain that it brings.
    Shallow, superficial decision.
    Real beauty obscured by my television.
    But this just in! Bikini film at ten.
    The female anchor smiles and shrugs it off,
    "Boys will be boys!"
    Do you really wanna be our fucking toys?
    And in again, condone it with a grin.
    Sit back, idly chat, smile, prove you're just a fuck machine.
    Is that what you really wanna fucking be??
    Conditioned reaction. Conditioned attraction.
    Conditioned suggestion. Conditioned rejection.
    And yet again, subjecting womyn.
    The female anchor's fists finally clinched,
    "I'm not your fucking toy!"
    And though I long to embrace, I will not misplace my priorities:
    Humor, opinion, a sense of compassion, creativity,
    And a distaste for fashion.

    To the Song Index

    This might be satire I wanna chew my bubble gum with you.
    And I wanna walk you home from school.
    And I wanna carry your books to every class.
    And I wanna fuck you up the ass.
    Girl, don't you know it's true, how much I love you.
    I wanna sing it 'cross the land, oh won't you hold my hand?
    She tells me that she loves me,
    Now I'm gonna tell her that I love her.
    She tells me that she loves me,
    Now I'm gonna try and fuck her.
    But where the hell are my priorities?
    Left in the hands of the authorities.

    To the Song Index

    Who will help me bake this bread? I speak my mind. I question theirs.
    It seems to me like no one really cares.
    Peripherally blind. Intellectually numb.
    Ignorance by choice? Or just plain fucking dumb?
    You're threatened by my mind. You want everything the same.
    But my questions still remain.
    You boycott your brain. You answer with fists.
    But my questions still persist.
    You can rearrange my face but you can't rearrange my mind.
    You can beat this shell about me, but you can't touch what's inside.
    So now who will help me bake this bread?
    Who will be the first to speak and leave complacency for dead?
    I've done all that I can on my own.
    But stagnant minds persist to squeeze blood from this stone.
    But I won't bleed for you. I have no need for you.
    Death will be the day I conceed to you.

    To the Song Index

    I want you to want me Go to the Cheap Trick home page.

    To the Song Index

    The Cryptically-Entitled Mutual Friend... Deep? No. There was nothing remotely romantic about it.
    No hand-me-down sob-stories, either nurtured or genetic.
    So what exactly did I consider so god-damned important
    that I had to shelve each and every one of my convictions?
    Secured. Mutually reassured... of our consistancy.
    But your defense rejects what (you claim) you believe.
    Because what the fuck is so "sociable"
    about animal confinement, torture, union-busting, sexism and...
    isn't it strange how you don't call anymore?

    To the Song Index

    The About-as-close-to-emo-as-we'll-ever-get Song I hid inside my room like a fucking coward
    and the past 18 months flashed before me in the last eight long hours.
    A little less than amazing: you finally got a rise out of me.
    So I laughed, I cried (well, I tried, but i laughed again).
    See? Who the fuck needs a caricature to be their friend?
    It's so fucking stupid.
    I'm just as scared and insecure as you (maybe even X2)
    and i wonder what you really thought of me.
    An intimate friend? A loud-mouthed jerk? Or just a novelty?
    (and, hey, do you think i could sing this a little more out of key?)
    This is not an apology. It's just therepy.
    Because as we all know (and apparently), I don't need anybody.

    To the Song Index

    I Would Very Much Like To See What Happened In Oka In 1990 Happen Everywhere The best thing i ever saw on tv
    was that S.Q. (Securite Quebec) cop catching a bullet with his teeth.
    Condolence, Mme. Canadiana, but your husband was a fucking (stuck) pig.
    But this song's not about some romantic account of history.
    It's not about martyrs or mythos or heroes or burnings-in-effigy.
    It's about a native kid flipping her lid
    just trying to keep some self-respect intact.
    It's about an Oka the size of a fist in resistance
    and a will to fight back...
    and the girls at work, they still deny their racism.
    They claim tolerance for all.
    But it seems the degree of (only) racial slurs
    is their gauge (and it defines tolerance as hate).
    And there's 27 million "girls-at-work" here.
    Imagine fighting that for 500 years.
    And golly-gee! How valient!
    How the white oppressor makes allowance
    for calculated gestures of insurgence
    (all tightly tethered to their purses/purpose).
    Oka had this orchestra(tion) aborted.
    Oka fucked their rules to choose a future self-determined
    and I, for one, support it...
    ...and the smartest thing i think i ever said:
    "if a Kevin Kostner Kavalry is your means to their end,
    then the struggle is dead".
    Why do we pretend that our approval is upon what they depend?

    To the Song Index

    Remain I can't believe the things that have been said
    Remain for the purpose of remaining.
    I can't believe all the things we've done
    and still we've learned nothing.
    I can't believe all the things we've done
    and I can't believe all the tears we've spent
    just to remain full of sadness.
    Those same old emotions remain.
    I Never did the things I wanted to
    or said the things I should have done,
    but there's a part of me wouldn't let them go,
    keeps them down, won't let it slide.
    Maybe next time I'll say the things I should have said.

    To the Song Index

    Just Between Friends "I've got my hands up her dress and it means nothing.
    It's not about love, its not even about sex.
    This time it feels like I've got control.
    At this time tomorrow I'll be able to look back and call her a slut.
    We were wondering who would fuck her first, another point for me.
    I know my friends will be so proud of me. Just between friends.
    How come they want to seperate?
    They've got all the rights that me and my buddys do.
    You fucking talk about degradation.
    You stupid bitches haven't got a clue.
    We were wondering who would fuck her first, another point for me.
    I know my friends will be so proud of me. Just Between Friends."
    ...When someone thinks like this and the attitude is spread,
    our dream is dead

    To the Song Index

    No Exchange I never promised you nothing,
    never said I'd be your perfect shackled slave.
    If success to you is measured in dollars and cents then I decline.
    That's nothing. That's not my dream.
    It comes between everything.
    Someday we'll divide because for so much effort some people starve.
    They've got everybody working for something they could care less about.
    That's nothing. That's not my dream.
    It comes between everything.
    Someday we'll divide. Would somebody here fill my soul with purpose?
    There's something here, my friend.
    Don't step on me on your quest for millions.

    To the Song Index

    T.I.Y (Title It Yourself) Self-doubt, and people saying we're not worth shit.
    Talking behind our backs.
    They say we're a walking contradiction of ourselves.
    Our message isn't getting through.
    Fucker, even you got the message...
    our shitty band created a discussion.

    To the Song Index

    *No Title* Disregard their suffering. Spoon-fed fuck taught not to care.
    It's easy for you to think everything is okay. This is OK?
    I've never seen worse. They want what you have.
    Flaunt your privilege. You will fall.
    Do you really think your life is worth more?
    You have no idea what it's like to live like that.
    They'd love a minute to give you back that suffering.
    This life, I don't need it. They want what you have.
    Flaunt your privilege. You will fall.

    To the Song Index

    Sixty Billion Served Don't tell me that you say you care
    while you're fucking sacrificing nothing.
    Don't even mention the word oppression
    while you're driving Daddy's Jaguar.
    Our prosperity is their death.
    Pat us on the back, third world wallets gone.
    There's blood on our hands,
    it's your choice if you want to see it or not.
    It could change. It comes down to you. Oppression is in your pocket.
    It's all personal, it's not enough to cry.
    This time you can start by cooking your flag.
    You can stop doing what you're told.
    Don't believe what you see on TV.
    CNN reporters, they're all ex-generals.
    Democracy, big fucking joke. It's just one big capitalist enterprise.
    Smaller countries, they have no hope.
    USA crushes self-government.
    It's your choice, you could help to limit your contribution by restraint.
    It could change. It comes down to you. Oppression is in your pocket.
    It's all personal, its not enough to cry.
    This time... you can start by leaving the line.
    You can stop doing what you're told,
    because today freedom is bought and sold. Bought & Sold.

    To the Song Index

    Appliances And Cars This isn't business, its our hope and its our voice.
    You're not a product, so tell them you can't be bought.
    I don't want corporate backing, five hundred thousand bucks a year,
    that's not what it's about. it's something so much more. More than money.
    Dissent rolled into words, they don't belong here.
    Do you really think they care?
    This music belongs to us, it's finally something we control.
    I won't let it get torn away. It won't be torn away.
    What's the message sent when your actions contradict your words?
    I don't want to play, you can keep your quarter.
    I'll have no part. I won't stay in line or keep in order.
    Yeah, you know what it means.
    Hey, Mr. Superstar do you really believe we think you care?
    You think you're saying something? You're saying fucking nothing.
    Your message is killed by the paycheck in your hand.
    It's already hard at work as your capitalist machine destroys.
    What's the message sent when your actions contradict your words?
    I don't want to play, you can keep your Quarter.
    I'll have no part. I won't stay in line or keep in order.
    You don't know what it means.
    To me the message is the most important thing.
    Communication is more important than entertainment.
    This music saved my life,
    so I'll be dead and fucking gone before it's bought and sold
    just like appliances and cars.

    To the Song Index

    Apparently, I'm a "P.C. Fascist" (Because I care about both human and non-human animals) Some of my otherwise brilliant and productive friends
    (like scoundrels and their flags)
    take final refuge in character assasinations;
    they ignore the issue and deny the relation
    between our consumption and brutality.
    So you can go ahead and roll your eyes
    and marginalize me/socially penalize me: play on my insecurities.
    And you can feign ignorance, but you're not stupid, you're just selfish.
    And you're a slave to your impulse.
    And I kinda thought we all shared common threads
    in that we gravitated here to challenge the conventions
    we've been fed by a culture that treats
    (living, breathing, feeling) creatures like (biological) machines.
    And if you buy that shit then how long 'till it's me
    who serves as your commodity?
    Through (for example), institutionalized violence
    and opression of workers and women raped by sexism
    (and how about native americans?).
    Do you still insist on feigning indignance (aka: indignation) to reason?
    To collective self-interest?
    Tell you what- I'll call you on your shit, PLEASE CALL ME ON MINE.
    Then we can grow together and make this shit-hole planet better in time.
    So why not consider someone else: STOP CONSUMING ANIMALS.
    To the Song Index

    Nailing Descartes to the Wall/ (Liquid)Meat is Still Murder I speak outside what is recognized
    as the border between "reason" and "insanity".
    But I consider it a measure of my humanity
    to be written off by the living graves of a billion murdered lives.
    And I'm not ashamed of my recurring dreams
    about me and a gun and a different species (hint: starts with "h" and rhymes with "Neuman's")
    of carnage strewn about the stockyards, the factories and farms.
    Still I know as well as anyone
    that it does less good than harm to be this honest
    with a conscience eased by lies.
    But you cannot deny that meat is still murder.
    Dairy is still rape.
    And I'm still as stupid as anyone, but I know my mistakes.
    I have recognized one form of oppression,
    now I recognize the rest.
    And life's too short to make another's shorter-
    (animal liberation now!).

    To the Song Index

    Less Talk, More Rock I'd like to actively encourage the toughest man
    to dance as hard as he can to this, my song.
    And bring your stupidest friends along.
    We wrote this song because it's fucking boring
    to keep spelling out the words that you keep ignoring.
    And your macho shit won't phase me now.
    It just makes us laugh, we got your cash, court-jester take a bow.
    Because did you know that when I was nine,
    I tried to fuck a friend of mine?
    HE was 8, then I turned 10.
    14 years later it happened again (with another friend).
    This time me on the receiving end.
    And all the fists in the world can't save you now.
    Cuz if you dance to this, then you drink to me and my sexuality.
    With your hands down my pants by transitive property.

    To the Song Index

    Anchorless They called here to tell me that you're finally dying,
    through a veil of childish cries.
    Southern Manitoba prarire's pulling
    at the pant-leg of your bad disguise.
    So why were you so anchorless? A boat abandoned in some backyard.
    Anchorless in the small town that you lived and died in.
    I've got an armchair from your family home.
    Got your P.G. Wodehouse novels and your telephone.
    I've got your plates and stainless steel.
    Got that way of never saying what you really feel.
    I don't want to live and die here where we're anchorless.

    To the Song Index

    Rio de San Atlanta, Manitoba Our cities seem to function quite the same:
    sweeping ghettos under one big rug makes them easier to contain,
    so the upper-middle class can sleep (or shop in peace)
    and convince themselves that "trickle-down" will solve this poverty.
    Yes, murderers walk our streets
    and their weapons are their pens, desks, policies and P.R. campaigns
    (fed by the spoils of war) against the
    "lazy, shiftless" populations of the poor.
    This system cannot be reformed...
    (so how about we try something different?)

    To the Song Index

    A Public Dis-service Announcement From Shell ("Clear Thinking in Troubled Times": Winnipeg Free Press, Nov 21st, 1995)

    "People have the right to the truth.
    Unvarnished. Even uncomfortable.
    But never subjugated to a cause, however noble or well-meaning.
    They have the right to clear thinking.
    Slogans, boycotts and protests don't offer answers...
    (I)t has been suggested that Shell should
    pull out of developing nations altogether.
    The oil would certainly continue flowing.
    The business would continue operating.
    The vast majority of the employees would remain in place.
    But the sound and ethical business practices synonymous with Shell,
    the environmental investment,
    and the tens of millions of dollars spent
    on community programs would all be lost.
    Again, it's the people of developing nations that you would hurt.
    It's easy enough to sit in your comfortable homes in the West,
    calling for sanctions and boycotts against a developing country.
    But you have to be sure that knee-jerk reactions
    won't do more harm than good.
    Some campaigning groups say that we should
    intervene in the political process in developing nations.
    But even if we could, we must never do so.
    Politics is the business of governments and politicians.
    The world where companies use their economic influence
    to prop up or bring down governments
    would be a frightening and bleak one indeed."    (ha. ha.)

    To the Song Index

    ...And We Thought That Nation-States Were a Bad Idea "Publicly subsidized! Privately profitable!"
    That's the anthem of the upper-tier (the puppeteer untouchable).
    We focus a moment, nod in approval
    and bury our head back in the bar-codes of these neo-colonials
    while our former nemesis (ah, the romance!):
    the nation-state, now plays fund-raiser
    for a new brand of power-concentrate.
    Try again, but now we're confused- what is "class-war"?
    Is this class war? Yes, this is class war.
    And I'm just a kid- I can't believe that I gotta worry
    about this kind of shit! What a stupid world!
    Yeah, this is just beautiful... absolutely no regard for principle.
    What a stupid world. (We're): 1) born 2) hired 3) disposed!
    Where that job lands, everybody knows
    and you can tell by the smile on the CEO's
    that the environmental restraints are about to go.
    You can bet that laws will be set to ensure
    the benefit of unrestricted labor-laws
    (all kept in place by displaced government death squads).
    They own us. They produce us. They consume us.
    Can you fucking believe this? What a stupid world.
    Fuck this bullshit display of class-loyalties.
    The media and "our" leaders wrap it all up in a flag-
    their fucking shit-rag. hooray!

    To the Song Index

    I Was a Pre-teen McCarthyist At Harold Edward's Elementary you pay respect
    to Our God, Our Flag, Our Military.
    In grade 3 I had a written composition
    about the global threat of communism.
    And I was the luckiest 8-year old McCarthyist of 1979:
    I spent spring break on the flight line of a base in the Carolinas-
    the U.S. version of my dad had signed us in.
    And 12 years later, the Gatling I'd touched
    that was strapped to the nose of a U.S. A-10,
    separated flesh from bone and honed its' skills on "lesser humans".
    And thus confirmed the suspicions earned
    in the 7 years preceding about the lies I was told
    and if the truth be known, I'm probably better off believing
    (well, they said I'm better off believing...
    somehowbetter off believing).
    But how could they do this to me?
    Born head first and brought up ankle deep.
    And maybe you're a lot like me-
    identified for 14 years without a choice.
    Terrified the morning you woke up and realized
    that if and when you jump ship, you either swim for shore or drown.
    Don't let the fuckers drag you down.

    To the Song Index

    Resisting Tyrannical Government Why don't we all strap bombs to our chests
    and ride our bikes to the next G-7 picnic?
    It seems easier with every clock tick.
    But whose will would that represent? Mine? Yours?
    The rank-and-file's? Or better yet: the Government's?
    But I don't want to catalyze or synthesize the second Final Solution.
    I don't want to be the Steve Smith of the Revolution.
    Do you see the analogy? We're the Oilers. The World Bank- the Flames!
    And just 2 minutes remain in the 7th game of the best of 7 series!
    Yeah, Jesus saves! Gretzky scores! The workers slave.
    The rich get more.     One wrong move and we risk the cup.
    So play The Man, not the puck.
    Why don't we plant a mechanic virus
    and erase the memory of the machines
    that maintain this capitalist dynasty?
    And yes, I recognize the irony that the very system
    I oppose affords me the luxury of biting the hand that feeds.
    But that's exactly why priviledged fucks like me
    should feel obliged to whine and kick and scream-
    until everyone has everything they need.

    To the Song Index

    Gifts Wake up, coughing, tired, with my face in my hands,
    staring at the window as the sunlight demands action.
    All the energy it takes to close these bedroom blinds.
    Wrote this selfish sadness on a bathroom wall,
    spent half the span of some lost culture's rise and fall,
    but I'm as clueless as a drooling four year old.
    Still hoping I might find the capacity
    to let you know I know you're lonely.
    So here's the last call for regrets,
    a final slow dance through the days that we all hold on to.
    Here's the promises I've made, tied too tight to undo.
    An unwrapped gift from me to you.
    All the slightly insane on the 18 North Main,
    reaching for a small-town downtown, night rain,
    nothing I could say could be worth saying anyway today.
    Like "Hey, whatever happened to what's that guys' name?",
    we get a little older and it looks the same: askance.
    Excuse my failing sense of humour.
    Here's the promises I've made; a razor blade and this broken piece of chain.
    A history left to rust out in the rain.

    To the Song Index

    The Only Good Fascist is a Very Dead Fascist Swastikas and Klan-robes. Sexist, racist, homophobes.
    Aryan-Nations and Hammerskins: you can wear my nuts on your nazi chins!
    God, I love a man in uniform!
    (But, uh, before we get too intimate here, big fella):
    what exactly are the great historical accomplishments of "your" race
    that make you proud to be white?
    Capitalism? Slavery? Genocide? Sitcoms?
    Guns? War? Pollution? Addiction? NAFTA? Thigh-Master?
    This is your fucking white-history, my "friend".
    So why don't we start making a history worth being proud of
    and start fighting the real fucking enemy:
    the white male capitalist supemacist.
    Swastikas and Klan-robes. Sexist, racist, homophobes.
    This one's for the "Master Race":
    my brown-power ass in your white-power face!
    Kill them all and let a Norse God sort 'em out!

    To the Song Index

    A People's History of the World At some turning point in history, tends to democratize cultures and societies
    so the only thing to do was monopolize
    and confine it to priests, clerics and elites (the rest resigned to serve),
    cuz if the rabble heard the truth they'd organize against the power,
    privilege and wealth hoarded by the few- for no one else.
    And did it occur to you that it's almost exactly the same today?
    And so if our schools won't teach us,
    we'll have to teach ourselves
    to analyze and understand the systems of thought-control.
    And share it with each other,
    never sayed by brass rings or the threat of penalty.
    I'll promise you- you promise me-
    not to sell each other out to murderers, to thieves...
    who've manufactured our delusion
    that you and me participate meaningfully
    in the process of running our own lives.
    Yeah, you can vote however the fuck you want,
    but power still calls all the shots.
    And believe it or not, even if (real) democracy broke loose,
    power could/would just "make the economy scream"
    until we vote responsibly.

    To the Song Index

    The State-Lottery Does it seem strange to you? The confetti. The balloons.
    The mile-wide grins and the victory dance
    to welcome in the heir to a state of (utter and complete) disrepair?
    Because it sure seems strange to me:
    they're acting like they won the fucking lottery!
    I mean, shouldn't they feel terror at the task that lies ahead:
    to feed and house the people that this system's left for dead.
    And could I have hit the nail much harder on the head?
    It's profits before lives. They are motivated by greed.
    First they taught us to depend on their nation-states
    to mend our tired minds, our broken bones, our bleeding limbs.
    But now they've sold off all the splints
    and contracted out the tourniquets
    and if we jump through hoops then we might just survive.
    Is this what we deserve? To scrub the palace floors?
    To fight amongst ourselves?
    As we scramble for the crumbs they spit out,
    frothing at the mouth about the scapegoats that they've chosen for us.
    With every racist pointed finger
    I can hear the goose-steps getting closer.
    They no longer represent us
    so is it not our obligation to confront this tyranny?

    To the Song Index

    Refusing to Be a Man I'm not going to try to tell you
    that I'm different from all the rest.
    I've been subject to the same de-structure of desire
    and I've felt the same effects; I'm a hetero-sexist tragedy.
    And potential rapists all are we.
    But don't tell me this is natural. This is nurturing.
    And there's a difference between sexism and sexuality.
    I had different desires prior to my role-remodelling.
    And at six years of age you don't challenge their claims.
    You become the same.
    (Or withdraw from the game and hang your head in shame).
    I think that's exactly what I did.
    I tried to sever the connections between me and them.
    I fought against their further attempts to convince a kid
    that birthright can bestow the power
    to yield the subordination of women
    and do you know what patricentricity means?
    I found out just a couple of days/months/years/minutes ago.
    It means male values uber alles and hey!
    Whaddaya know... sex has been distorted and vilified.
    I'm scared of my attraction to body types.
    If everything desired is objectified
    then maybe eroticism needs to be redefined.
    And I refuse to be a "man".

    To the Song Index

    Letter of Resignation Takes a dried up ballpoint, lemon juice and water, keeps diary invisibly.
    In the kitchen corner of a basement bachelor suite,
    there's a certain search for certainty,
    you know we'll never see her hands touch
    her childhood home in photos that she took.
    It's one more omission from a highschool history book;
    how whole lives are knifed and pushed aside.
    To whom it may concern...this is to inform...yours, sincerly yours...
    There's a bus that's leaving half an hour from now.
    It won't take her where she really wants to go.
    So she sits there with her luggage at her side.
    In the empty stations of our empty lives.
    Take a broken bottle, take a rafter beam,
    or take a needle and a tarnished spoon.
    All just words to kill off one more unheard statement
    in another dying afternoon;
    she says she's leaving soon.
    So so long to ten hour shifts and faking sympathies.
    Farewell to piles of bills, unpaid utilities.
    All rolled up and unfurled like a flag.
    Wake up and pack your bag...
    "It's like being sick all the time, I think, coming home from work,
    sick in that low-grade continuous way that makes you forget
    what it's like to be well.
    We have never in our lives known what it is to be well.
    What if I were coming home, I think,
    from doing work that I loved and that was for us all,
    What if I looked at the houses and the air and the streets,
    knowing they were in accord, not set against us,
    What if we knew the powers of this country
    moved to provide for us and for all people-
    How would that be- How would we feel and think
    and what would we create?

    To the Song Index

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    © 1999 punkworld@yahoo.com
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