Liars. nLiars. All you bands should just retire. nYou sing the songs of hypocrites. nLike nuns with guns or chicks with dicks. Two. Four. Six. Eight. nBuy our shit and regurgitate. nI'm so bored with all of us. nKill yourselves. nPlease. I'm down here on my knees. nI'm begging darlin' ease my worried mind. nnWhat makes you think you have something to say that has not been said in a much better way? nI've got power chord blues, ears jammed with feedback. nSongs with no soul and even less of a sack. nnWent to the record store and what the fuck did I find? nThousands of records by thousands of kids nwith overpriced budgets but not one hint of a mind. nnLudwig would be crying. nCash would slit your throat. nDee Dee wound up dying. nBiz would hate your flow. nnTalk, talk, talk, talk but you've nothing to say. nMy headphones hate you. nSilence is golden when you sound like my shit. nMy stereo hates you. nSay something new or say nothing at all. My eardrums hate all you Guitar Center punks with broken record syndrome. nSongs of straight edge and friends, shit we already know. nWhat's the point? nnKnock, knock, knock. nWho's there? nIt's me! nEvery song from 1983. nI heard myself on your LP's. nNo way! nI did! nIt couldn't be! nSee, we mix Cro Mags with The Clash! nWell it sounds like every other piece of trash. nAren't you tired? nDon't you want something new? nTake back 1983. nWhile you're at it, take the rest of punk rock, too. nI want more.