Safe. So safe. So safe that we don’t mean a goddamn thing. There is no more danger, there’s no more danger here. We’re safe. A waste. We’re no longer something to fear. There’s so much left to sing about, there’s so much more to say. But we say less and less with each passing day. I thought we’d break down walls. I thought we’d rise above. That we’d conquer the world. That what we did was secret. Fuck a pretty product. And fuck a pretty tune. This is ugly fucking music from an ugly fucking room. We have stopped our digging. There’s no more underground. We sing: nothing, regurgitated gimmicky sounds. All our ears are plugged with the hottest of hot air. And we might actually make a difference if only we would ever dare. We just sing the same old shit. I won’t let us fool ourselves. I won’t keep up the charade. We could do so much more. Change much more than we’ve changed. Your mohawk don’t mean a thing. Your studded belt don’t mean a thing. And your test press don’t mean a goddamn thing to me. Punk rock don’t mean a thing. Punk rock don’t mean a thing. Punk rock don’t mean a goddamn thing to me. Can you use your brain? We can. Can you start to think? We can. Can you raise your voice? Can you be dangerous? Yes, we can.