"Yo Music Scene, What Happened?" lyrics
I know my lyrics aren’t the best you’ve ever heard,
But I say what I mean and I mean every fucking word.
I’m sick of listening to narrow minded pricks bumming third rate bands,
they’ve all got shit on their dicks.
When you try to get posh the meaning gets lost, so I’m thinking inside the box.
They say that we sound like these bands, have they heard our CD?
Even though we’re in the mags, it’s still not good enough for me.
They can keep their reservations, unconstructive criticisms - I just can’t take them.
Where’s your band?
So now you’re trying to get on guestlist?
Come on fellas, pull the other one!
I c-c-can’t believe the games you’re playing, after all that you’ve been saying.
How do you do? My name’s Mike and I make music I like.
Believe me my friends, I don’t want to offend,
but we put time and thought into these songs no one got.
You’ve got the cheek to say that we’re a covers band,
with your headphones on and Gallows’ dick in your hand.
You sit behind a desk in an office all day long,
mouthing words wrong to old Metallica songs.
Where’s your band?
Genre must be hard to distinguish with only a GCSE in English.
But I say what I mean and I mean every fucking word.
I’m sick of listening to narrow minded pricks bumming third rate bands,
they’ve all got shit on their dicks.
When you try to get posh the meaning gets lost, so I’m thinking inside the box.
They say that we sound like these bands, have they heard our CD?
Even though we’re in the mags, it’s still not good enough for me.
They can keep their reservations, unconstructive criticisms - I just can’t take them.
Where’s your band?
So now you’re trying to get on guestlist?
Come on fellas, pull the other one!
I c-c-can’t believe the games you’re playing, after all that you’ve been saying.
How do you do? My name’s Mike and I make music I like.
Believe me my friends, I don’t want to offend,
but we put time and thought into these songs no one got.
You’ve got the cheek to say that we’re a covers band,
with your headphones on and Gallows’ dick in your hand.
You sit behind a desk in an office all day long,
mouthing words wrong to old Metallica songs.
Where’s your band?
Genre must be hard to distinguish with only a GCSE in English.
