Alright, let's get this party started right and let your brain rest As we just press play and play the court jesters The stress...(uh), gets to all of us at some point Until the DJ got you falling for a dumb joint Dance halls held at gunpoint, with songs that explode and oversexed boys Get the next toys and learning tools by no means, dudes Brain dead, tone deaf, so fresh, so clean Would now be a good time to say "throw your hands up"? "Nah, bro, just kick the next stanza!" Don't get me wrong, I love it when you answer But would you say "ho!", if I said "Pauline Hanson"? Live from the Elefant mansion, imagine This life so handsome, holding the Libs for ransom We'd arrive at every gig in a chariot And Rok Postya'd have a bass amp with a trolley to carry it [Hook] Now, if you're sick and tired of the news reports And your modern-day life is a blues of sorts Put your head in the sand with your Walkman on Put this goddamn song on and hum along... it goes "La, la la la la", we can't hear you! "La la, la la", we can't hear you! "La, la la la la", we can't hear you! "La, la la la" He got up on his high horse, and jumped on a dumb song Never been in it for money, but keeps getting the punts wrong He's offering his lyrics, but nowhere they come from His name is Junk John, alias is a month long Dumb it down deliberately, then renegotiate the fee Hopes his opiates will open up a market overseas But sober beats, irregular show proceeds (fuck that) He took his bag to only eight ads in a row and unpacked Eagerly awaited groupies up in his nut sack Smoke a lot of weed, but when he's platinum, he'll cut back Public liability ain't covering that though Nor his rag flow, we think he a modern day Banjo Battla Patterson, with a pad and a pen It don't matter, as long as it rhymes, he'll be back back it again He'd rather have it on them, but sadly, it's not my scene The underground struggled up, for real, where's my limousine? ("Serious uncool, man Where's my limo, dude? We gotta go to Crackhead FM and do a spot with Kyle and Scrappy Dog! Scrappy Dog? Oh, he phoned mate") [Hook] Yeah, that's right, close your eyes, swing your hips And fling yourself around with this song on your lips Let your guard slip, drink, we all need balance And check out, we rock a party with a stick and a carrot And while you barrack for our Peter Garrett stances And out of habit parrot all the proper answers Indignant standards, chantin', signifying what's wrong And then The Herd turn your concerns into a three minute pop song So join us on a voyage, our immodest peripatetical This dude'll take your blues on a mental sabbatical Fanantics, jump aboard and appropriate it as an anthem Or just nod your head and smile, try to pick up while you're dancin' And chances they'll brand us naysayers But if we add a catchy chorus, radio might still play us Maybe pose for alley photos with scowling hoodlums Or bootleg my sex tape with Delta Goodrem "(la la la la la la la, la la la la la la la, you serious?)"Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
