1. HANG'EM HIGHT

Hang em 'til the last ones dead
Hang em 'til the last ones dead
Hang em 'til the last ones dead
Let them know we're coming out to kill

Behind gentle eyes, beneath Brooks Brother's gray
The cold calculations of the beast burn hard

For West Virginia miners
And conate in Ecuador
For Delhi child labor
And Niger Delta poor

We kill
We kill
We kill
We kill
....Die!!!

Let's hang em fucking high.


2. SCENE AND NOT HEARD

Crawling out en masse, they gather
Turkey flop platoons, will scatter
Drag-queen ninjas dance, pirouetting
Always 'scene' and never heard, these core eyesores

What have we learned, in seventeen years
Of glam-rock in the grave?
That history repeats itself...again

...And right on cue, Pavlov's dogs will dance

"Like dude, this band just sucked until they broke it down!"
...Its coming yet again, I think I feel it,
Its coming right now...dance you fashion fuckers!

Brie Brie Brie! (It's a fucking good cheese!)
You gotta love it!

Always posing, my space whoring
Mascara and sleeve tattoo
Narcissists in 'youth small' clothing
...Next Nirvana, where are you?


3. LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT

From 'shock and awe' to 'cut and run'
The parlance of our times
Is shut your mouth or ship it out
"We don't need you traitorous swine!"

Tropes that tie the noose-
From mediating whores
To bastard criticizers
Who dare to question W's war

Vagaries of verse
In sound-bite serenade
The Crawford-Texas curse?
Veracity is vilified again!

Boiling under pressure
Quixotic aspirations hem the wheel
And the blindness of the captain
Steers Jesusland through icy waters still

Full steam ahead!!!


4. DISCORDIA (ALTERNATE ACOUSTIC VERSION)

...And through all our failed attempts
We still proclaim our opinions law,
One small step into life and your taken,
Taken by a storm of fear,
You can't stop the fleeting of the years,
I sing a song of myself through the gaze of Narcissus,
A reflection of inert violence,
As your average American crusading in the name of man,
My reality is life in the backseat riding into foreign lands,
In my million dollar box of regret,
I'll spread disease to protect it,
My reality is life in the backseat,
Gorging on the blood of nations, gluttonous as
I eat myself alive,
Heed the call of the Suicide Shepard,
When they jump I know I'll follow,
Is that our echo screaming down from the tower,
Now the martyr is your pilot,
The Captain is in his quarters,
The Navigator's throat is slit,
A 7.mile stare with your eyes on the deep,
Feeding from their trough full of sheep,
Proclaiming your opinions law,
As your average American, always doing all I can,
My reality is life in the backseat, spiraling into the gyre,
With me my brand old weapon
It's called my clenched fist.