What We Worked For

I lost the confidence to write a song so i found three simple chords and I held them together with my weak voice on an out-of-tune guitar my father gave to me. and May Elvis turn in his grave and Les Paul curse my dirty calloused fingers. and May the likes of this song never make one fucking dollar, leave it for a demo tape to be played until it's broken then remembered only for what it was... that we gave 'em hell that we gave 'em hell that we gave 'em hell To my friends and enemies who could have been anything, titans and heroes who found survival in cause and effect. Behind counters, behind windows, striving just to be people with bitter ideals of justice. Do we only need to keep working because it pays rent? Sleeping under plastic stars glued to a ceiling, muscles burning alcohol and nicotine every morning... but we gave them hell but we gave them hell but we gave them hell There's a height beyond skyscrapers, there's a distance beyond the freeway. More than pictures in a magazine, more than tragedy in a rock and roll song. It's more than the actions you know it's safe to make, It's more than money could ever buy. Are we living to work and die in american cities, and working to live and die in american cities, and dying for what we worked?