Back To The Motor League
Propagandhi Lyrics

I like to party fucking hard. I like my rock and roll the same. Don't give a fuck if I burn out. Don't give a fuck if I fade away.
I enjoy living life to the fullest and indulging in wild parties and loud rock music. The consequences of such behavior don't concern me.

So back to the Motor-League with me before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public who live vicariously through tortured-artist college-rock and floor-punching macho pabulum.
I prefer retreating to the world of ordinary mundane work and daily routine rather than facing the criticism of wealthy customers who find pleasure in listening to dramatic emotional music and cliched tough-guy songs.

Back to the Motor League I go. Once thought I drew a lucky hand. Turned out to be a live grenade of play-acting 'anarchists' and Mommy's-little-skinheads, death-threats and sycophants and wieners drunk on straight-edge.
I am returning to my previous lifestyle of mediocrity where I won't have to deal with fake rebels pretending to be anarchists, skinheads following their parents' ideology, people who threaten others' lives, or those who blindly follow the straight-edge movement while acting foolishly.

Fuck off. Who cares? I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Tiks than listen to your bullshit. Fuck off.
I don't care about what others think of me. I would rather focus on my own interests and beliefs than listen to people's empty words. So I say, go away and leave me alone!

Who cares about your stupid scenes, your shitty zines, the straw-men you build up to burn.
I don't care about the subcultures, the low-quality magazines, or the imaginary enemies that people create just to tear them down. It's all meaningless to me.

It never ceases to amaze me and as I'm suffering your perfection it reminds me of my own race to redress my own sad history of mouthed feet. Eaten hats. Teated bulls. Amish phone-books. Drunken brawls.
It's surprising that people continue to strive for perfection, while I struggle with my own mistakes, failures, and ridiculous or embarrassing moments of the past.

But what have we here? 15 years later it still reeks of ??Swill and Chickenshit Conformists with their fists in the air; like-father, like-son 'rebels?? bloated on korn, eminems and bizkits.
After fifteen years, I still find the same old boring conformists who pretend to be rebellious with their fists in the air. It's like they are following in their parents' footsteps with their love for overhyped and cheesy bands like Korn, Eminem, and Limp Bizkit.

Lord, hear our prayer: take back your Amy Grant mosh-crews and your fair-weather politics. Blow-dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed.
I pray to God to remove the fans of Amy Grant and their hypocritical political opinions from my life. All I want is to have my hair styled and ride a bicycle without a care in the world.

I guess life is just a popularity contest. Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience. Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands selling shoes for venture-capitalists, silencing competing messages, rounding off the jagged edges.
It seems that life is all about being popular and selling out to the establishment. Successful musicians must follow the rules set by corporations, and they might even partner with capitalists to promote their brands or suppress their competitors' voices.

Today is good day to die.
This line seems to convey a sense of defeat or despair, as if the artist is ready to give up on life and embrace death. However, the exact intent and tone depend on the context of the song and the artist's perspective.