Texty: 10-4 Eleanor. Rice-a-clone Me: The San Fran-scenester Treat.

I'm drunk on the vestiges of a dying scene
What's left: impressions of what it really means.
To be a part of something bigger than the system that unjustly reared us:
With our reflections in the knife, distorted from the fear of time.

It's not the message that ran out on us.
It's always been around collecting dust.
Kids with backwards haircuts are turning punk into a fashion show.
Right-wingers and Christians sink their fangs of guilt into our fucking throats.

That's not what I do this for.
But I can't point fingers anymore.

When the meaning gets lost:
When the spirit goes to hell:
You've got to pick up all the pieces:
You've got to put them back yourself.