In Defense of the Genre

Can't you see, my dear, what you create is greater than great It's beautiful and valid Go tell the false friend, who doubts your art: "Hey, toss my caustic salad!" Their noise pollution is a one-night stand A closet corporate ballad Compose the theme, compose the theme That seems to haunt the sultan's dreams Yes their truth is a lie, a sickly, sober sky Don't you dare lie down your sword and die, oh small fry Crime of the century, know what it meant to me They'll label us what they can never be Hate me but I am in your heart pulling it apart Burning up a black hole All those magazines and stifled teens Whose trite teething is outdated Have miniscule minds of clay in need of chiseling away This war's been reinstated So spit a wad in the face of their fucking flawless race And all they've consecrated I won't believe the twisted web they weave They can stitch you silent now, or bitch the violence out I'm disavowed, I'm proud to shun their know-how The wolf begat the lamb, now it's in his hands I'm reeling from a feeling that they've banned Our last stand goes: Hallelujah, love lost I've got an empty wallet and a record cover The stage, hot and worn like an aging lover So I spew a comet of verbal vomit Sacreligious, of Christ or Islamic It's full of piss and they'll never stop Come on and kill the kindly ones The ever blinding ones We stand and face you now, we will not run Just you wait and see where your lemming line leads