Take a look at your haircut. You're killing me.
Take a look at your glasses. You're killing me.
Placement of the piercings. You're killing me.
Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Take a look at your ripped jeans. You're killing me.
Take a look at your Converse. You're killing me.
Get a shirt that fits you. You're killing me.
Right. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Someone the other day was telling me about marketing
and how it is so important for a band to sell a t-shirt.
I told him that the money goes right back into the same thing
and now we're just a breeding ground for more and more consumers.
And sellout, shmellout, it's not about that.
But all my problems seem to stem from cash.
I got my beliefs and I don't care if they're right
but every time [?] I get them out [/?] they always seem to get me in a fight
Soon we'll be in the clear
When we get out of here
Where style is function
And our egos make us fight.
For now we'll live in fear.
We're not sexy enough for this atmosphere.
Someone blow it up tonight.
Please blow it up tonight.
Take a look at your haircut. You're killing me.
Take a look at your glasses. You're killing me.
Placement of the piercings. You're killing me.
Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Take a look at your ripped jeans. You're killing me.
Take a look at your Converse. You're killing me.
Get a shirt that fits you. You're killing me.
Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Williamsburg has got the lights turned low
and a moron with a laptop is calling this poetry.
A singer with a thrift amp brags "Vintage Circuitry".
I saw him on the cover of Bop or Seventeen:
"I'm so lonely/Life is empty/Where's my coke and f*cking money?"
Tonight at the bar I got a good look at the enemy:
"I'm too f*cking cool, someone else can write the songs for me."
Soon we'll be in the clear
When we get out of here
Where style is function
And our egos make us fight.
For now we'll live in fear.
We're not sexy enough for this atmosphere.
Someone blow it up tonight.
Please blow it up tonight.
Now we're cloning sheep.
Writing garbage in their diaries.
Reading their AP and watching Fuse TV.
Kill it, c'est la vie.
Fashion show equals your scene.
Bomb the industry, yeah.
Then run away or watch the blast.
I'm getting out so kiss my ass.
I'm going nowhere, nowhere fast.
I'm going nowhere, nowhere, nowhere.
Does Your Face Hurt? No? Cause Its Killing Me!!! Video (MV)
Bomb The Music Industry! - Does Your Face Hurt? No? Cause Its Killing Me!!! Lyrics
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We currently do not have these lyrics.
If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
Take a look at your haircut. You're killing me.
Take a look at your glasses. You're killing me.
Placement of the piercings. You're killing me.
Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Take a look at your ripped jeans. You're killing me.
Take a look at your Converse. You're killing me.
Get a shirt that fits you. You're killing me.
Right. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Someone the other day was telling me about marketing
and how it is so important for a band to sell a t-shirt.
I told him that the money goes right back into the same thing
and now we're just a breeding ground for more and more consumers.
And sellout, shmellout, it's not about that.
But all my problems seem to stem from cash.
I got my beliefs and I don't care if they're right
but every time [?] I get them out [/?] they always seem to get me in a fight
Soon we'll be in the clear
When we get out of here
Where style is function
And our egos make us fight.
For now we'll live in fear.
We're not sexy enough for this atmosphere.
Someone blow it up tonight.
Please blow it up tonight.
Take a look at your haircut. You're killing me.
Take a look at your glasses. You're killing me.
Placement of the piercings. You're killing me.
Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Take a look at your ripped jeans. You're killing me.
Take a look at your Converse. You're killing me.
Get a shirt that fits you. You're killing me.
Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Williamsburg has got the lights turned low
and a moron with a laptop is calling this poetry.
A singer with a thrift amp brags "Vintage Circuitry".
I saw him on the cover of Bop or Seventeen:
"I'm so lonely/Life is empty/Where's my coke and f*cking money?"
Tonight at the bar I got a good look at the enemy:
"I'm too f*cking cool, someone else can write the songs for me."
Soon we'll be in the clear
When we get out of here
Where style is function
And our egos make us fight.
For now we'll live in fear.
We're not sexy enough for this atmosphere.
Someone blow it up tonight.
Please blow it up tonight.
Now we're cloning sheep.
Writing garbage in their diaries.
Reading their AP and watching Fuse TV.
Kill it, c'est la vie.
Fashion show equals your scene.
Bomb the industry, yeah.
Then run away or watch the blast.
I'm getting out so kiss my ass.
I'm going nowhere, nowhere fast.
I'm going nowhere, nowhere, nowhere.
Take a look at your glasses. You're killing me.
Placement of the piercings. You're killing me.
Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Take a look at your ripped jeans. You're killing me.
Take a look at your Converse. You're killing me.
Get a shirt that fits you. You're killing me.
Right. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Someone the other day was telling me about marketing
and how it is so important for a band to sell a t-shirt.
I told him that the money goes right back into the same thing
and now we're just a breeding ground for more and more consumers.
And sellout, shmellout, it's not about that.
But all my problems seem to stem from cash.
I got my beliefs and I don't care if they're right
but every time [?] I get them out [/?] they always seem to get me in a fight
Soon we'll be in the clear
When we get out of here
Where style is function
And our egos make us fight.
For now we'll live in fear.
We're not sexy enough for this atmosphere.
Someone blow it up tonight.
Please blow it up tonight.
Take a look at your haircut. You're killing me.
Take a look at your glasses. You're killing me.
Placement of the piercings. You're killing me.
Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Take a look at your ripped jeans. You're killing me.
Take a look at your Converse. You're killing me.
Get a shirt that fits you. You're killing me.
Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight.
Williamsburg has got the lights turned low
and a moron with a laptop is calling this poetry.
A singer with a thrift amp brags "Vintage Circuitry".
I saw him on the cover of Bop or Seventeen:
"I'm so lonely/Life is empty/Where's my coke and f*cking money?"
Tonight at the bar I got a good look at the enemy:
"I'm too f*cking cool, someone else can write the songs for me."
Soon we'll be in the clear
When we get out of here
Where style is function
And our egos make us fight.
For now we'll live in fear.
We're not sexy enough for this atmosphere.
Someone blow it up tonight.
Please blow it up tonight.
Now we're cloning sheep.
Writing garbage in their diaries.
Reading their AP and watching Fuse TV.
Kill it, c'est la vie.
Fashion show equals your scene.
Bomb the industry, yeah.
Then run away or watch the blast.
I'm getting out so kiss my ass.
I'm going nowhere, nowhere fast.
I'm going nowhere, nowhere, nowhere.