Five minutes of compromise ( ENOUGH GETS WORSE )

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V6-MINI

Sometimes you play what they came to hear.
Five minutes of compromise won’t kill.
You can give a little and cross the line.
Sometimes you nod and say, “Fine.”

Then the doors blew open — Swifties... Fuck. Of course.
Armed to the teeth like glitter-coated special forces.
“Get on the floor! You’re hostages. Nobody gets hurt.”
We figured getting shot would probably be worse.
Five minutes later Mike had their leader on the hook.
Of course it was Mike — one smile was all it took.
He came back: “Dudes, you’re not gonna believe me.
They took us hostage for some country girl’s new EP.”

Sometimes you play what they came to hear.
Five minutes of compromise won’t kill.
You can give a little and cross the line.
Sometimes you nod and say, “Fine.”

While the Swifties negotiated, the dumbest idea hit all four:
Why not give the crazy fucks what they came here for?
Make it soft enough to melt whatever hearts they had.
Maybe they’d cry, drop the guns, forget what made them mad.
None of us listen to country. Imagine that.
So ours came out like pop-punk in a cowboy hat.
Dave went, “Wait. This shit is actually legit.”
We shrugged, counted in, and played that country shit.

I don’t need forever, just give me tonight.
Leave your boots by the doorway, leave your anger outside.
Let the porch light burn till the morning comes.
Ain’t no use in running when the running is done.
If the whole world goes quiet, I’ll still be right here.
You can lay down the weight you’ve been carrying, dear.
We can walk out easy when the sun comes around.
So take my hand, honey, put the gun down.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?
Our drummer put a stick through her eye.

She screamed. I started swinging my guitar.
Dave drove his bass neck straight into some bitch’s gut.
Blood went all over his white Black Flag shirt.
He looked down. “Fuck. This one was new.”
Somebody bit Mike. Mike bit her back.
Drummer ripped off the hi-hat and threw it like a shuriken.
It buried itself right between the next girl’s eyes.
Ten seconds later, nobody was shooting anymore.

Sometimes you play what they came to hear.
Five minutes of compromise won’t kill.
You can give a little and cross the line.
Sometimes you nod and say, “Fine.”

Sometimes you play what they came to hear.
Five minutes of compromise won’t kill.
You can give a little and cross the line.
Sometimes you nod and say, “FUCK OFF.”

FUCK OFF!

Then the lead Swiftie got back up.
Slowly pulled the drumstick out of her eye.
We all just stared at her.
OH COME ON! ZOMBIES AGAIN?

2874/7500

Last show of the tour, some tiny town. Barely got loaded in, barely got soundcheck done. Crowd started yelling, “GET THE POWER BACK ON!” By then we’d heard that shit every night, all tour long. Mike looked over like, “You wanna play it?” Honestly, no. But they paid to be here. So we tuned up, counted in, played the old shit. Everybody lost their minds. Fine. Whatever. Sometimes you play what they came to hear. Five minutes of compromise won’t kill. You can give a little and cross the line. Sometimes you nod and say, “Fine.” Then the doors blew open — Swifties... Fuck. Of course. Armed to the teeth like glitter-coated special forces. “Get on the floor! You’re hostages. Nobody gets hurt.” We figured getting shot would probably be worse. Five minutes later Mike had their leader on the hook. Of course it was Mike — one smile was all it took. He came back: “Dudes, you’re not gonna believe me. They took us hostage for some country girl’s new EP.” Sometimes you play what they came to hear. Five minutes of compromise won’t kill. You can give a little and cross the line. Sometimes you nod and say, “Fine.” While the Swifties negotiated, the dumbest idea hit all four: Why not give the crazy fucks what they came here for? Make it soft enough to melt whatever hearts they had. Maybe they’d cry, drop the guns, forget what made them mad. None of us listen to country. Imagine that. So ours came out like pop-punk in a cowboy hat. Dave went, “Wait. This shit is actually legit.” We shrugged, counted in, and played that country shit. I don’t need forever, just give me tonight. Leave your boots by the doorway, leave your anger outside. Let the porch light burn till the morning comes. Ain’t no use in running when the running is done. If the whole world goes quiet, I’ll still be right here. You can lay down the weight you’ve been carrying, dear. We can walk out easy when the sun comes around. So take my hand, honey, put the gun down. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? Our drummer put a stick through her eye. She screamed. I started swinging my guitar. Dave drove his bass neck straight into some bitch’s gut. Blood went all over his white Black Flag shirt. He looked down. “Fuck. This one was new.” Somebody bit Mike. Mike bit her back. Drummer ripped off the hi-hat and threw it like a shuriken. It buried itself right between the next girl’s eyes. Ten seconds later, nobody was shooting anymore. Sometimes you play what they came to hear. Five minutes of compromise won’t kill. You can give a little and cross the line. Sometimes you nod and say, “Fine.” Sometimes you play what they came to hear. Five minutes of compromise won’t kill. You can give a little and cross the line. Sometimes you nod and say, “FUCK OFF.” FUCK OFF! Then the lead Swiftie got back up. Slowly pulled the drumstick out of her eye. We all just stared at her. OH COME ON! ZOMBIES AGAIN?

0/500