no thank you for the music

No Thank You For The Music

I don’t want to be in any gang that you’re in.
I refuse to take part in gatekeeping people’s art.

Now I’m surprised to report that as I enter my forties,
I’ve returned to being an angry man.
I can see clearly now that the drugs wore off -
Some kinds of music just aren’t part of the plan.
But through computer malfunctions and rare grudging concessions,
We occasionally broke into the house.
Just because trouble like us comes a-calling
Doesn't mean there was a place to sit down.

Now I wouldn’t give a fuck about the style cartel
If it wasn’t for their wider pretensions
To represent some kind of authoritative voice
On value in the cultural dimension.
But my rejection of the systematic fleecing
Of the underground can be more easily put:
Bees shouldn’t waste their time telling flies
That honey tastes better than shit.

No thank you for the music that seamlessly fits into the plan –
The sound of a culture that gave up on pretending it was anything more than a scam.
No thank you for the music that effortlessly fits the aesthetic –
The sound of a culture that’s resigned to its art being little more than an anaesthetic.

And I didn’t give a shit about where I could sit
In the cafeteria at my school,
And now that I’m grown I’m not about to condone
Paying attention to what’s supposed to be “cool”.
And the effort that you poured into trying to look bored
Of yourself just makes you look like a fool.
And as for all the hangers on, the desperate and badly drawn,
All the fair-weather forgettables, the cowardly contemptibles:
No thank you, no thank you, no thank you, no thank you.
No, thank you.

Count me out of the game, my teeth are too long.
Here’s hoping that the kids have fangs
To chew their way through this little Gordian knot,
And leave the gatekeepers to go hang.
I don’t want to be in your gang, and I never did.

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