calling all kids to the new location.
a ringside seat to the saddest sight in town.
causing a commotion around the radio again but this time the beat is something vaguely familiar...
they made you an exile and now they crack a sheepish smile because they want in on the secret sound,
but you're gonna' keep it -hold it to your breast,
because the last time they addressed you was a note that said,
"you're gonna' get it at recess."
we knew this birth was an ambush but we came out anyway.
to face the shinkicks as we face each new day.
so spin another anthem mr. dj please...
something they can call their song.
as they beat each other blue on the dancefloor we'll be sure to sing along.
now i know it's better to get even than get angry,
but best of all to simply carry on.
and all the scorn of the adored won't be enough to crush this wound up,
pent up, bent out of shape love song.
call it resolution, not some kind of fucked-up revenge.
select and circumspect and unrelenting
and this bulemic culture is out to steal the goods but getting nothing.
and their arms won't hold you now.
even the score.