Texty: Million Dead. Other. Hipsterclad And Clueless.

It's just a song
Just another generic mid-paced foot-tapper
Just a conservative assembly of melody and basic rhythm.
Four-on-the-floor
A key change as a curve-ball for the unititiated...
I'm well aware it won't change a thing.
But ever the Kantian I won't be discouraged by the apparent chasm between means and ends.
The kids and I who danced like we were sure can always say maybe, just maybe, we were a threat.
So raise your fucking eyebrow you fucking coward.
Crawl home and compose your memoirs.
We haven't changed the world when we pack up the backline but the sweat on the small of my back says at least I fucking tried...
The kids and I who danced like we were sure declare that this number is the end of your fucking show
And this line is the end of your song
This song is the end of your set
This set is the end of your night
This night is the end of your youth.
You were so nearly there
But hipster-clad you didn't understand that you have to partake in the sacrament of sound.
So grab your partners and nod your head, arms folded at the back of the crowd.
But as you tap your feet to the beat of this song
Another second has passed
Another minute has gone
And as you acquiesce in growing older you know that one day you'll hang your head
As you realize you heard it all but never listened to a word.
So go forward from this day and swear to me you'll hear it all but always dance like you believe.