Faster moves bastard

So, thirteen years odd now, and we weren't as wise.

I guess i should've known that at the time but it's hard in the throwing conceit to believe that, even for a moment, you might be fucking wrong or simply off base when there was just so much to rail against with those skinny little wrists and still fat fucking faces that sang and scowled and laughed much harder and longer than any one of your small arsenal of best fucking friends would've ever deigned to admit no matter how wide the blonde grin in photographs or how bright your nail polish.

When you believed in the ills of selling out. when you didn't want to buy in. when the targets were easy and the cost was a bruise or a scar you'd still be wearing to company barbecues day to shilling day.

But, shit, it was a good time.

I guess it still is.

Even if the horns turned into screaming and the enemy's left the white hat for a polyester arm deserving sweat and you'll never quite be the star you imagined plastered on the sidewalk by some dumb kid just like you.

And the hands don't hold like they used to when rode on high with strangers and hit each chorus with a shot straight to heaven knowing somewhere, someone was given the damn that made it all worth dancing.

Islands.mp3