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Sometimes it's easy to ignore, if it's forgettable |
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Sometimes it's magic to the soul, claims you for its own |
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But every now and then I hear a sound that breaks the spell |
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Whoever puts that garbage on the air must love the smell |
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I can't do this |
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People call it music, |
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But I'm not sure |
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And there's a difference between a set of blueprints for radio |
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And just plain noise |
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I turn my television on to pass me through the night |
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I'm watching fools try to sing an awful song that didn't even rhyme |
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I know some tool's just sitting at a desk pulling the strings |
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They shove their garbage |
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Axed out every ? the towers reach |
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I hate music |
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If that's what you call music, |
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But I don't know |
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Who approves the shit they pass for music on the shows |
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There's no difference between the set of blueprints for radio |
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And failure |
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There was a time you couldn't fake your game |
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Turn the red light on and you delivered the goods |
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Or you were chased off stage by someone else who could |
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You were making magic or you couldn't make nothin' at all |
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Nothin' at all |
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Well I hate music |
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If that's what you call music, |
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That's for sure |
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If you're amused by the polysonic zoo, well, |
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It's all yours |
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Every day there's a new song being played that sounds like hell |
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Whoever puts that garbage on the air must love the smell |
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You can listen to whatever you like |
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I try and keep it bottled up inside |
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But don't pretend it's not polluting the world |
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As it plays on and on and on and on |
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Somewhere they must have lost their way |
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Threw their souls out for attention and fame |
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Their taste is bad, their opinions are wrong |
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They make awful shit, but the radio keeps bangin' their songs |
