In Defense Of The Genre

Can't you see, my dear,
What you create is greater than great
It's beautiful and valid
Go tell the false friend who doubts your art:
hey, toss my caustic salad
their noise pollution is a one-night stand
a closet corporate ballad
compose the theme that seems to haunt the sultan's dreams

yes their truth is a lie, a sickly, sober sky
don't you dare lay down your spear and die,
oh small fry
crime of the century, know what it meant to me
they'll label us what they can never be

so hate me, but I am in your heart, I am in your heart
pulling it apart

all those magazines and stifled teens whose trite teething is outdated
have miniscule minds of clay in need of chiseling away
this war's been reinstated
so spit a wad in the face of their fucking flawless race
and all they've consecrated
I won't believe the twisted web they weave

They can't stitch you silent now
Or bitch the violence out
I'm disavowed, I'm proud to shun your know-how
The wolf begat the lamb
And now it's in his hands
I'm reeling from a feeling that they banned
Our last stand goes:

I am in your heart (burning up a black hole)
Pulling it apart

Hallelujah, love lost
I've got an empty wallet and a record cover
The stage, hot and worn, like an aging lover
So I spew a comet of verbal vomit
Sacrilegious of Christ or Islamic
It's full of piss and they'll never stop it
Come on

And kill the kindly ones
The ever blinded ones
We stand and face you now, we will not run
Crime of the century, know what it meant to me
Just wait and see where your lemming line leads