What we worked for

I lost the confidence to write a song,
so i found three simple chords and I held them together with my
weak voice on an out-of-tune guitar my father gave to me.
May Elvis turn in his grave and Les Paul curse my dirty
calloused fingers. May the likes of this song never make one
fucking dollar,
leave it for a demo tape to be played until it's broken
then remembered only for what it was...
that we gave 'em hell(repeated).

To my friends and enemies who could have been anything,
titans and heroes who found survival in cause and effect.
Behind counters, behind windows, striving just to be people
with bitter ideals of justice.
Do we only need to keep working because it pays rent?
Sleeping under plastic stars glued to a ceiling,
muscles burning alcohol and nicotine every morning...
but we gave them hell(repeated).

There's a height beyond skyscrapers, there's a distance beyond
the freeway.
More than pictures in a magazine, more than tragedy in a rock
and roll song.
It's more than the actions you know it's safe to make,
It's more than money could ever buy.
Are we working to live and die in american cities,
living to work and die in american cities, and dying for what we
worked.