Lyrics: How to Clean Everything

Anti-Manifesto

Dance and laugh and play. Ignore the message we convey. It seems we’re only here to entertain. A rebellion cut-to-fit. Well I refuse to be the soundtrack to it. While we entertain we’re still knee-deep in shit. There’s something wrong inside. We’ve played it safe, enjoyed the ride. You won’t like this but I have something to confide. We strive for something more than a faded sticker on a skateboard. Now we’ve rained on your parade and we’re out the door. And I don’t even care any fucking more. Witness this pair in accomplice. Witness a pair; lethargic, unconscious. No brows furrowed in question, complacent, completing their tasks (no questions asked). Consider this critic a cretin. Just resting on laurels (completely invented). Word acrobatics performed with both harness and net. I am so full of shit. But I will remain until this self-awareness fades. Until I defeat the the purpose served by this soapbox that you made. That you made.

Head, Chest or Foot?

Three choices. One bullet. One trigger. Guess who gets to pull it? One leader. One thousand slaves. For every throne there’s one thousand graves (give or take a grave). You’re all the same. Just part of their machine. Perpetuate their dream. They subsidize their nightclubs and they subsidize your malls. They herd and brand the masses within painted prison walls. Until your freedom of assembly becomes the missiles they create or just mass delusion dancing to this music that you fucking hate. But I’m not the same. I’m not a pat of your fucking machine. I’ll jeopardize their dream. I’d rather be imprisoned in a George-Orwellian world, than this pacified society of happy boyz and gurlz. I’d rather know my enemies and let you know the same. Whose windows to smash and whose tires to slash and where to point the fucking blame. One future. Two choices: oppose them or let them destroy us.

Hate, Myth, Muscle, Etiquette

Mark your point of failing. It begins where you concede. Hesitate. Procrastinate. Sedating. All configured to impede your path. You need a good kick in the ass. Now take a step back and have a long, hard look. Hold it to the light and read it like a book. Analyze the past and present to see what is to come. Now wrap your lips around the barrel of the gun. Mark my point of failing. It began where I gave in. Comfort. Convenience. Placating. Construed to suck me in to their trap. I need a good kick in the ass. As time passed by I realized we don’t need rule(s) to survive. Just common sense and means to subsist. So from here on in I will resist. I’ve finally realized. I’ve found my way at last. It’s finally evident. We all need a kick in the ass … The basis of change: educate! Derived from discussion, NOT hate, NOT myth, NOT muscle, NOT etiquette. Intellect, not “re-elect!”. Status symbols yield to respect between sex, species, environment.

Showdown (Greenest Eyes/Preamble)

We spoke our minds too clearly. We assumed fundamental rights were inherent not as pawns but humynz. I do not require a gauge for freedoms of speech cuz I never asked to be a citizen. I never have and never will pledge allegiance… Waking up each morning with confusion in my eyes. The wind is biting through to wave hello. Seeing my reflection, an exterior of lies. I hope this shaky feeling doesn’t show. As if I had to tell you, there was little left to say. Stilted conversations coloured blue. You were sitting down and you got up to walk away. I tried to stay, but I was right behind you. Tension in the stair, I cannot bear so close to helpless as the songs I sing inside me ring. Final words are boring never touch I know you whispered something in my ear. I couldn’t hear you. Gyrls with the greenest eyes. First time you have kissed. Our quiet softest sighs. A song for all of those who shot and missed. Welcome to this world impuded identity. Born, tagged, tattoed, pacified. Generously bestowed my rights and privileges replete. Arbitrary values ascribed. There’s nothing I can tell you. There’s nothing I can say. Stunted conversation, censored thought. I’m completely free at liberty guaranteed. Unless, of course, you decide I’m not. But I’ll not be resigned to fall in line behind you. Tension in the air I cannot ear so what the fuck am I accomplishing? Absolutely nothing. All these words are boring. It’s time for action. But you’ve taught me to be a pawn. It won’t last for long. Those who see through the lies are quickly gagged and bound. Their ambitions realized. Tear the whole fucking thing down.

Ska Sucks

Ska sucks. Ska revival isn’t cool, you stupid fuck. The bands are only in it for the bucks. And if you don’t believe me you’re a schmuck. But the trend will die out with any luck. Rudy, a message to you Rudy… Fuck you Rudy! Ska is a trend that must be eliminated!

Middle Finger Response

Bowl of cherries in Waskasoo creek. A sylvan way of life for those who seek none beyond a parkland mall. This landscape oasis now feigns City Hall. And they call this peace. That’s not how it seems to me. Sugar coated disease. Buckle at the knees. Your members of parliament lining their garments with hides of the masses (their heads stuck up their asses). Bald little soldiers, flags sewn to their shoulders. This insight spawns despair. Why am I not a part of this? Pine cone wealth and cedar fence bliss? All your novel themes that keep you amused on your way to the Canadian, flag-waving-aryan, a) cunt/cock/ass/mother/father/finger/butt/blood/booger b) sucking/fucking/shitting/farting/picking/flicking/dicking … dream!!! Nobody cares about the state of affairs. You can turn blue in the face, but you cannot erase. Oblivious to the obvious, I’m making perfect sense but I’m not getting through. Progress overdue. But don’t expect to find me with a note left to be read. Pistol in my hand and a bullet in my head. Because this census indicates and this atlas has related 3 billion humynz I haven’t irritated. I’ve got a lot of work to do. 3 billion people. That’s 3 billion snotty fuck you’s.

Stick The Fucking Flag Up Your Goddamn Ass, You Sonofabitch (Not to be gender-specific, of course!)

My father told me “Son it’s futile to resist. You can topple the ideology but not the armies they enlist.” I questioned the intentions of the boy scouts chanting “WAR!” “Well, that’s the sound of freedom, son”, he said (free to say no more). But wait a minute “dad”, did you actually say freedom? Well, if you’re dumb enough to vote, you’re fucking dumb enough to believe them. Because if this country is so goddamned free, then I can burn your fucking flag wherever I damn well please. I carried their anthem convinced it was mine. Rhymeless, unreasoned conjecture kept me in line. But then I stood back and wondered what the fuck they had done to me. Made accomplice to all that I promised I would never be. You carry their anthem, convinced that it’s yours. Invitation to honour. Invitation to war. Bette Midler now assumes sainthood. Romanticize murder for morale. Tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree my friend and “Gee, Wally. That’s swell!” Fuck the troops (Insert corny but relevant/ poignant catch phrase here).

Haillie Sellasse, Up Yor Ass

You speak of Rastafari, but how can you justify belief in a God that’s left you behind. You simply fill the gap between the upper and lower class and your faith merely keeps you in line. An amalgamation of jewish scripture and christian thought. What will that get you? Not a fucking fuck of a lot. Take a look at your promised land. Your deed is that gun in your hand. Mt. Zion’s a minefield. The West Bank. The Gaza strip… Soon to be parking lots for American tourists and fascist cops. Fuck zionism. Fuck militarism. Fuck americanism. Fuck nationalism. Fuck religion.

Fuck Machine

It’s something physical. It’s a conditioned reaction. It’s something physical. It’s a conditioned attraction. But, have I finally escaped? Will my eyes no longer rape the innocent womyn, chyldren, humyn beings? Seeing the pain that it brings. Shallow, superficial decision(s). Real beauty obscured by my tunnel/ tele-vision. But this just in! Bikini film at 10:00 pm! The female anchor just smiles and shrugs it off, “Boys will be boys!”. But do you really want to be our fucking toys? And in again, just condone it with a grin. Sit back, idly chat, smile, prove you’re just a fuck machine. Is that what you realy want to fucking be? Conditioned reaction. Conditioned attraction. Conditioned suggestion. Conditioned rejection. And yet again, subjecting women. The female anchors’ fist finally clenched, “I’m not your fucking toy!”. And though I long to embrace, I will not replace my priorities: humour, opinion, a sense of compassion, creativity and a distaste for fashion.

This Might Be Satire

I wanna chew my bubble gum with you. And I want to walk you home from school. And I want to carry your books to every class. And I want to fuck you up the ass (not). Oh girl, you know it’s true how much I love you. I want to sing it across the land. Won’t you hold my hand? She tells me that she loves me, now I’m gonna tell her that I love her. She tells me that she loves me. Now I’m gonna try and fuck her. But where the hell ae my priorities? Left in the hands of the authorities. Yeah, baby!

Who Will Help Me Bake This Bread?

I speak my mind, I question theirs. It seems to me like noone really cares. Peripherally blind, intellectually numb. Ignorance by choice, or just plain fucking dumb? You boycott your brain. You answer with fists. But my questions still persist (you fucking asshole). You can rearrange my face but you can’t rearrange my mind. You can beat this shell about me, but you can’t touch what’s inside. SO now, who will help me bake this bread? Who will be the first to speak and leave complacency for dead? I’ve done all that I can on my own. But stagnant minds persist to squeeze blood from this stone. But I won’t bleed for you. I have no need for you. Death will be the day I concede to you (As you can see, I really mean business. Poot!).

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