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, 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 lie down your sword and die, oh small fry
 Crime of the century, know what it meant to me
 They'll label us what they can never be
 Hate me but I am in your heart pulling it apart
 Burning up a black hole
 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 Whose trite teething is outdated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 stitch you silent now, or bitch the violence out
 I'm disavowed, I'm proud to shun their know-how
 The wolf begat the lamb, now it's in his hands
 I'm reeling from a feeling that they've banned
 Our last stand goes: 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
 Sacreligious, of Christ or Islamic
 It's full of piss and they'll never stop
 Come on and kill the kindly ones
 The ever blinding ones
 We stand and face you now, we will not run
 Just you wait and see where your lemming line leads