lyrics
It’s a rattling of sort
That makes the youth contort their bodies
The fevered masses searching for a star
When emotions are riled, the pulses getting wild and unruly
There’s nothing quite like blood on the guitar
Watch your mouth when speak of our culture
I’m not sure why you should care
It’s a tickertape charade and praise is being flung out of cages
The type of scene where youth will congregate
That paragon of men whose record will go down for the ages
Will keep them waiting, so fashionably late
Watch your mouth when speak of our culture
I’m not sure why you should care
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