PC
You're so politically correct it crawls down my neck
Smug as a bug in your righteousness
They all sit at you're feet like you are some maharishi
As you knock off all of the easy targets
And knockup all of the tightest teachers pets
And now you are rich man you bought yourself a band
You're talking tough and you're playing loud
You sure know how to please your crowd
They all rally around you in their sweat shop stylie-man suits
Flashing their bright red union cards
Blaring all your CDs from their oriental cars.