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F#
Some lunatic's screaming in the distance
Somebody nearby mutilates a guitar and its strings
Another casualty's hitting anyone with anything
If music be the flavor of the soil, play on
Bumping and collapsing to the beat and retreat
Lost and trampled at a forgotten ground-zero
Lights flicker and sway in frenzy
People screaming and vomit at their leisure
Bloody spray is like some kind of omen
The pride of the pit relies on organic hysterics
To breathe the pain is to experience the show,
whether or not one feels the heat or hears the music
Without talent or restraint a man can scream to please
The girlies squeal and the hardcore shuffle
In the wild grey yonder we see a pattern puzzle in
Organized crime compares to beautiful music,
while sock-faced bank robbery stays true to the riff
Kids flock to the station-savy and the trends
Elitists mold their genre by whatever's obscured by life
Fossils breaking to enter, scurry away with memory in hand
Whoever's left gets to pick up the pieces
and arrange them however they like
The disc eternally skips.
