1. |
Filthy Luck
02:24
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I’m a slave to always fucking up. It’s not okay, but maybe it’s enough. Kids like us are weird, and more, we’re brave. We tie our tongues and turn them into rage. And the night’s still young. And we’re dumb enough to fall. Carve your name soft across my lungs. I want to breathe you until I’m numb. We’re not loved, well, hardly, anyway, with filthy luck in such a filthy haze. But the night’s still young. And we’re dumb enough to fall. Turn the amps up to nine. I don’t want it too loud. I gave you taste and a spine, now I hope you drown. Is there a lie in the lights or the shine of this town? This guitar wants to die.
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2. |
Kids
02:30
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Forget the loudest love songs we sang under your attic. They always felt too quiet. We should scream until the police shriek, "Hold it down." We'll tell them, "Yeah, alright." then bang the amplifiers. We're not violent. We're just some dumb kids getting wasted and knowing we're alive. There is anger, but it is just. It is power. The kids are still alright. We're just too high to fight. And it's brave to be polite and to wear fake leather. So, I carved your name in mine and I thought all about how we stumble around until gravity sleeps and you slip and fall into me.
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3. |
Get Lost
02:58
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I wear your scars on my knuckles, baby, to keep you soft. It’s not like us to be given things. We ain’t got much. This city sleeps in a pattern of broken junk, but nights like this, it don’t matter. All this dirty fun. We’ll grow high not up. These books and bars and this honesty, they’re all I’ve got. We drive on drugs, feeling everything until we get lost. This city sleeps in a pattern of broken junk, but nights like this, it don’t matter. All this dirty fun. We’ll grow high not up. I watch your palm hug your guitar. It buzzes like a bomb. I hardly talk. My lips are carved with lust and clumsy thoughts. Who called the cops? Whatever. We’ll never get caught.
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4. |
Punk Or Lust
03:04
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Bang and blare these sweaty prayers. Feed your skull. We're accidents, whores and wrecks. You're not alone. We are fucked up I know on this junk we've been told. Punk or lust? This machine, let it bleed. Let it explode. They kicked our teeth, called us freaks, you're not alone. We are fucked up I know on this junk we've been told. Punk or lust? They don't know the power of amplifiers or the gutter is where we feel alive. They don't know the only thing left's to write in this heaven of the angry, young and wild.
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Beach Slang Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Guitar, bass and drums. Played loudly.
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