Из альбома: Mud Angels
We run around in circles
Like chickens without a head,
Social inhibition
Is something quickly shed,
Everyone's the same
When you're slamming in the pit,
Never need to worry
How you're going to fit
You're the one that suffers
When you stand and stare,
Out there I am no one
And in here no one cares
My ears are humming
'Cause the music's loud,
As I take a leap
Over the crowd,
The floor is swelling
With a sweaty throng,
This is where I belong
As the world worsens
In its misery,
I need to find release
Of this pent-up energy
What a better way
Than in a crowded hall?
It's hockey without a puck,
It's rugby without a ball,
It's time to rub some elbows
It's time to fellowship
It's time to fuel the flame of life
That Jesus Christ has lit
What's in is out,
Non-conformity
Has been established
It's punk this,
It's punk that,
I don't need you to tell
Me what is punk,
I'm doing my own thing
Packed-in sardines
In a body swamp,
Some will want to skank,
Some will want to stomp
The pogo's still in style
With those in the old school,
Down with hate and violence
Is the only rule,
You say that punk is dead,
You say that it is gone,
Maybe you gave up
Maybe you're just wrong