fuck cops. well everythingís got me down, but sometimes a thumb just isnít enough to get the fuck out of this town. well he travels so he wonít find a way to destroy himself, and i guess i travel looking for a perfect method to do so. but thereís comes a day where thereís nothing left for you here, wherever ďhereĒ may be, and thatís the day that itís time to go. so we walked to the on-ramp, and it seemed like we were in it together. and just maybe if things went right, it could stay that way forever. but when it comes down to it, iím still the only one sleeping alone. i guess i should have known better than to think i wasnít on my own, but iíll never make that same mistake again. well i donít know the answer, but i know that you donít have it. i donít know what i want, but i know what i donít, you bastard. i donít know whatís right, i just know that youíre wrong. i donít know where home is, but i know that iím not there now. now is no time to be sober. pass more KING COBRA! until iím falling over. (until iím falling over.) itís saturday afternoon, and malt liquor is in the mug. if you had asked me then, i would have slurred: ďmaybe iím a little bit drunk.Ē but itís alright. the cops donít come out until night. and iíll get through this. iíll vomit up the dope sickness. the alchohol poisoning will pass eventually, and iíll survive again, unfortunately. when i dream of the future i see an arm full of holes, empty pockets, and a bleeding nose. hacking up a lung filled with blood and tar, on a sidewalk next to my spangeing jar. (next to my spangeing jar.) when i dream of the future i see a house falling in on itself. when i dream of the future i see shots of whiskey and failing health. when i dream of the future i see smoking crack, watching ten-year-olds buy it. when i dream of the future i see a place with someone to wanna die with. and i donít know the answer, but i know that you donít have it. i donít know what i want, but i know what i donít, you bastard. i donít know whatís right, i just know that youíre wrong. i donít know where home is, but i know that iím not there now. iím not there now.

Winter in New England (burn motherfucker burn in hell) none of us could hope to deserve to exist, but who can? i'll stay the worthless bum unless you got a better plan. doing our best to drink ourselves to death, or at least to sleep. trying to chain smoke the gaps between not enough to eat. well you give me the scars that make me laugh and cry whenever i notice them. i want my first beer back, and i want my first acid trip again. but i'll always remember the good times in my liver and my spine, and i'll always remember you in the same places. because i swear if that don't kill me, winter in New England will. at least until the snow melts, may i BURN MOTHERFUCKER BURN IN HELL. nobody could hope to deserve to exist, and we gave up trying. there's always room for one more round if you're the one buying. doing our best to drink ourselves to sleep, or at least a driver's seat. trying to chain smoke the gaps between aspiration and apathy. well i want you to always be just a drunken stumble away from me. the closest distance between two points is a straight line...of speed. but to me we're still able to meet because to me you're still on Elliot Street, and i've walked there twice as drunk as this before. because i swear if that don't kill me, winter in New England will. at least until the snow melts, may i BURN MOTHERFUCKER BURN IN HELL.

the end this car is just unregistered enough for a ride, and you're just unliscenced enough to be the one to drive. i'm just drunk enough for Modest Mouse to sound fine as the sun rises over a quarter to nine. and at the end of the world, i hope we're all still here. screaming up at the sky and swinging back cheap beer. daring god to finally come through on a millenia of threats, praying to jesus that this could finally be the end. this guitar has just few enough strings for this song, and you're just stoned enough for one more hit off this bong. i'm just strung out enough to stay up all night as the fourth rising moon in a row promises nothing will be alright. and at the end of the world, i hope we're all still here. screaming up at the sky, shotgunning cheap beer. daring god to finally come through on a millenia of threats. praying to jesus that this could finally be the end.

whiskey is my kind of lullaby. i was a loner until there were no friends left. before someone offered me drugs, you know i was straightedge. and everyone's quit until you offer them a cigarrette. before we learn our lesson let's see how bad things can get. and i'll drink myself to death or at least i'll drink myself to sleep, and chain smoke my way through the gaps in between my aspirations and my apathy. as we drive past the last exit to home i am waving goodbye. and i might be sleeping in the ditch tonight, but it's alright, because whiskey is my kind of lullaby. i was sober all morning until i woke up this afternoon. before someone offered me a job, you know i was gonna get one soon. and everyone in this town sleeps till the calender collides with june. before the booze wears off, let's take another shot or two. and i'll drink myself to death or at least i'll drink myself to sleep, and chain smoke my way through the gaps in between my aspirations and my apathy. as we drive past the last exit to home, and i'm waving goodbye. and i might be sleeping in the ditch tonight, but it's alright, because whiskey is my kind of lullaby.

it's not my revolution. (oi! oi! oi!) i say i've got nothing to live for like there's someone who does. i say i feel so betrayed like there's somebody it's safe to trust. and i'm not for inaction, but i am for despair. may our resignation lead us to battle against forces we know will destroy us before they really know we're there. i'm fighting for something between apocolaypse and liberation. i'm struggling with something between apathy and desperation. and just because i'm an anarchist doesn't mean that i won't burn a black flag; while you're wishing for utopia i just hope the cops don't search my paper bag. whoa. whoa. oi! oi! oi! whoa. whoa. oi! oi! oi! you look out over the on-ramp and all you can do is sigh. i can see that the interstate and the litter make you wanna die. but the way the morning sun hits the gasoline rising over concrete: well, it just seems so beautiful to me. (yeah!) you're fighting for a globe covered again in fields and forest. i'm thinking of a world without bricks and it just seems so boring. but keep your thumb and we could make Burlington by 7:30. you wish the world was clean, but i'm in love with the way it's dirty. whoa. whoa. oi! oi! oi! whoa. whoa. oi! oi! oi! he listens to a traffic report about the jam on the way to the city. it's only a couple of exits but it seems like a thousand miles to Philly. but i know that we'll make it to the basement show somehow. and i know that as soon as we walk in the door it will be about who can talk feminism the best to get into girl's pants, and who can quote Emma Goldman the most without having to dance. and singing those stupid protest songs. he says music can change the world, but with lyrics like that, i'm so glad he's wrong. whoa. whoa. oi! oi! oi! whoa. whoa. oi! oi! oi!

i want cancer for christmas. they said to just be ourselves, but we all knew that was never good enough. they said we had every chance, but how could we not fuck it all up? we would spend a lifetime trying to figure out how to make our hearts stop beating. we would spend a lifetime trying to figure out how to make ourselves stop breathing. i remember grade school, and starting to notice that i was the only kid sitting alone. i remember high school, and starting to notice that not much had changed since i was six years old. i would spend a lifetime trying to figure out how to make my heart stop beating. i would spend a lifetime trying to figure out how to make myself stop breathing.

acid song. if i found God anywhere it would be by the tracks, face down in a boxcar with a forty in both hands. when i find God there, we'll just sit and roll some Top, because he'll be just as confused as anyone else on this rock. i took two tabs of acid yesterday afternoon. woke up this morning with a torn pair of shoes. i found i'd ruined my life and everyone else's too. i guess this is what my teachers warned me drugs would do. but they forgot to mention the way that the morphine makes the pain go away, and how i'll always remember the good times in my spine and the holes i burn in my brain with this next line. if i found Satan anywhere it would be by the tracks, trading souls of kids like me for cheap bags of smack. when i find Satan there, you know i won't be thinking twice, because at least in hell there's rock and roll and there ain't no Jesus Christ. i swear i left my sanity someplace in this mess, crumpled between empty beers and packs of cigarrettes. i kicked my last hope to pieces and just hoped for the best. i guess this is why my friends warned me against hopelessness. but they're the ones getting laid, and i'm the one waking up alone every single day. i'll always remember that while i listen to their crap. tell them to fuck off, and then hug them after that. if i found God anywhere, it would be by the tracks, huffing whippets down as he watches the trains pass. when i find God there, i'll watch him pass out throwing up, because he's drank himself to sleep each night since the one that he made us.

church hymn for the condemened. today is like the feeling when you had a point, but forgot it. i had a ticket for my train of thought, but i lost it. god gave me instructions on how to live my life, but i couldnít read his handwriting, so i burnt them last night. but iíd take the beauty of chaos over ugly perfection. iíve woken up on the wrong side of the bed every day since 1987. i can feel myself slipping away from any chance of redemption, but thatís okay, because if itís where Fallwell goes, then i donít even want any part of heaven. a guy on TV offered to save my soul toll free, but that would have required getting up off the couch, so i was too lazy. instead i wait in the bushes outside of a copís house, holding a twelve gauge. god isnít dead, but iíll get that bastard someday! and iíd take the beauty of my chaos over anyone elseís perfection. iíve still woken up on the wrong side of the bed every day since 1987. nothing scares me as much as the fact that i donít give a shit for redemption, but thatís okay, because if itís where Fallwell goes, then i donít even want any part of heaven.

if you aren't doing something that's self-desctructive (then you're just wasting time) this is your life and it makes you wanna die. this is your life and it makes you wanna die. the other night i got into a drunk driving accident. a couple of forties grabbed the keys and sent us right into the ditch. but the truth is i was sipping up front with 'em, and getting me into that truck didn't take much convincing. and the truth is that even if there had been a seat belt you know i still wouldn't have worn it anyway. and the truth is that even if you asked me today i still couldn't be sure i regret it anyway. so grab another bottle of wine. if you aren't doing something that's self-desctructive, then you're just wasting time. so go ahead and run the goddamn stop sign. if you aren't doing something that's self-desctructive, then you're just wasting both of our time. the other day my best friend tried to kill herself in front of me. the broken glass along her wrist gasping for just one breath not full of her misery. and the truth is i couldn't argue with her reasoning; the world's a hopeless place no matter what we try to believe in. and the truth is that sometimes all that adds up is your razor blade plus your arm equals getting cut. all you can do is try to not give a fuck, because this isn't math class, and nothing adds up. nothing has to add up. so grab another fucking line. if you aren't doing something that's self-desctructive, then you're just wasting time. if you're out of cigarretes take one of mine. if you aren't doing something that's self-destructive, then you're just wasting both of our time.

put arsenic in the frosting next time. another year gone by, but still i canít say that iíve learned much. i still chug my caffiene, and i still hate god. another year gone by, but still i canít tell why i cry so much. do i need love, or just a blowjob? because it seems like lifeís a party where everyone gets drunk and layed but me. itís a beautiful night, but i canít say that it helps much. the years are still just a lengthy suicide pact. itís a beautiful night, and i wish that i didnít give a fuck. we should have hopped that train, then never looked back. because it seems like lifeís a party where everyone gets drunk and layed but me. it seems like lifeís a party where everyoneís too fucking smashed to leave.

election song. i curse the world one second and demand that it buy me a sandwhich in the next, or else i'm bumming the cigarretes to help me forget how hungry i am. i can't believe that bastard won this morning. it's the kind of night for vodka and forties. and we're mixing our drinks stiff tonight! and we're mixing our drinks stiff tonight! today is the dawn of the draft. tomorrow we're shipped off to iraq. or else we're cutting off the toes that will make selective services say we don't have to go. i can't believe that bastard won this morning. it's the kind of night for vodka and forties. who's ready for the war tonight? who's ready for the war tonight? i'm running on caffeine and nicotine and amphetamine. it's more stimulants on the way, but who doesn't have a drug problem these days? i can't believe that bastard won this morning. it's the kind of night for vodka and forties. i'm sniffing those pills hard tonight! i'm sniffing those pills hard tonight!

ďNO TRESPASSINGĒ waltz. and itís true that weíre teenage fools, trading five days a week to work and school. just to sneak around on weekends watching for the cops, to dance in abandoned parking lots, and call these cracks in the system a ďrevolutionĒ. but to the Vanguard Party thatís criticizing: what have you been up to the Soviet Union? when youíre not starving, life is just the mechanics of eating. talking to you is raw eternity, but what isnít these days? and if our only gift is this dark black void, to me thatís okay. because our nihilism is the terrorist wing of youthful apathy: burn everything down just to drink in the ruins of what used to be an American city. so if itís all the same, then iíll pass out tonight still hating punk rock, but in love with you and the kitchen floor that you let me sleep on. thereís whiskey in my bottle! and you know thereís enough for you. iíll join you in that grave youíre digging if thereís room enough for two. where thereís no risk of death, life is just the logistics of breath. tomorrow iíll wake up in a ditch with every friend that ever meant anything lying right there next to me. tomorrow iíll wake up in a ditch with every friend that ever meant anything on the opposite side of the country. but i still wouldnít trade anything for the nights when the rain promised us at 2 AM in some burnout industrial shell of a town that weíd never be dry again. and iíll keep walking, and running, and drinking towards a day that i can see suicide as a tragedy.

d.i.y. orgasms. iíve got my forty ounce, and a system to overthrow. know what to worry about, and nowhere to go. i traded in my hope for a hangover and a headache. iím contemplating rope, but canít tie knots that great. who needs love? NOT ME! who needs friends? I GOT ME! who needs drugs? ME! who needs sex? I GOT ME! iíve got my twenty ounce, and front row seats to the parking lot. iím on the corner now, watching them make out a lot. iíd trade in all my pain for all your priceless pillow talk. but iím not too old enough, and i think i care too much. but who needs love? NOT ME! who needs friends? I GOT ME! who needs beer? ME! who needs sex? I GOT ME!

untitled. tonight i bury old William without remorse, because Hell sleeps around and Heaven wants a divorce. tonight i burn my bookshelf to be free, because even a rebel tradition is slavery. tonight i bake my madness a birthday cake, because even the insomniacs arenít awake. tonight i burn my home while Beethoven plays, so tomorrow i can live like i died yesterday. today a stampede killed Superman, and Apollo and Dionysius both got hanged. today the Revolution laughed and spit in my face, but all-expenses-paid DADA will take its place. today the dropouts were smarter than the PhDs, as they took off with everyoneís car without the keys. today i bled failure all the way up to the sky, and i grinned hopelessly as i sit down to die.

new mexico song. as he lights an American Spirit, he asks how i can smoke such shit. i say: ďthereís nothing like chain-smoking GPC cigarettes, because any smokes will kill ya, but these will make you feel like it.Ē i sit back down on the parking lot curb, and remember back to february and the trip to hartford. when five minutes ago he was passed out on the staircase, trying to walk to his apartment but not making it all the way. and now heís driving us 100 miles an hour down the interstate, another beer in his hand and swearing we wonít be late. that was before everyone moved to New Mexico. they all left a couple of months ago. until the day, my friend, when I sleep on the floor of your van again, Iíll be waiting in this parking lot. and in my dreams, I am dirty, broke, beautiful and free. my hand clenched in a fist and my face in a smile, after hitching too many miles. we arenít revolutionaries, but we are the revolution! sometimes i think that the whole movement is just me and you, and maybe weíd all be better off if that were true. because then at least weíd know where we stand, and we could tell our ďcomradesĒ apart from ďthe manĒ. but if the world isnít that simple, maybe this town is, at least. and if iím not marching with them to war, iím sure not marching with you for peace. class traitor? what-fucking-ever! iím just another middle-class kid, too. but if iím not good at changing, iím good at self-loathing, so iíll class hate myself with you. may our only occupation be not having a job. may the only cocktails that we make be molotov. may that day be now, and for as many days after that as we know how. it starts in this parking lot. and in my dreams, I am dirty, broke, beautiful and free. my hand clenched in a fist and my face in a smile, after hitching too many miles.

Our lyrics have gotten complimented by multiple mothers. Score. My songwriting is totally getting me into bed with your mom.