hey, we don't play it right, but we go all out. and hey, i can't hold a note, but i'll talk dead straight. and all we can swear is that it's from our hearts' all the time.
it might not be pretty, but we can turn up; we've got amps on ten writing the soundtrack to an empty party and the only place i want to be is in moldy basements writing anti-anthems for each other. running on four wheels and the kindness of friends, we're digging out a hole under your house and playing it up through your pipes' this is where we call home. can't seem to sway the street toughs or the good looking boys in tight pants, so we'll keep right on screaming to water coolers and gas heaters. here is where we belong.