(Intro: A frantic, scratching acoustic guitar strumming at high speed. A harmonica wails a dissonant, upbeat melody while a washboard or a tambourine sets a rhythmic rattle.) (Verse 1) I’ve got a hole in my boot and a dent in my soul And I’m losing every bit of my self-control Drinking lukewarm coffee in a chipped-up cup While the cost of living keeps on going up! The radiator’s leaking and the landlord’s a jerk I’m skipping out on chores and I’m skipping out on work I’ve got three rusty strings and a plywood box And I’m singing to the pigeons and the garbage and the rocks! (Pre-Chorus) (The strumming becomes even more aggressive, hitting the wood of the guitar) And we’re shouting at the sky until the throat goes dry! We don't need a reason and we don't need a why! One, two! One, two, three, four! (Chorus) Oh, it’s a folk punk riot in the middle of the night! With a flickering candle for a stadium light! We’re the kings of the gutter, we’re the lords of the trash Building up a future from the cinder and the ash! Strum it ‘til your fingers start to bleed and to sting This is the only kind of freedom we can sing! (Verse 2) (Tempo stays high, bass line is a simple, thumping acoustic drive) Met a traveler in the park with a tattoo of a bird He told me every lie that I’d already heard About the beauty of the road and the magic of the tracks While we’re carrying the world on our hunched-up backs! But there’s a comfort in the chaos and a mercy in the mess A little bit of "no" in a world of "yes" I’d rather be a failure on my own damn terms Than a suit and a tie in a garden full of worms! (Bridge) (Tempo slows down for a second, just a lonely harmonica and a single-note bass thrum) The train whistle’s blowing... The moon is on the rise... I can see the revolution... In your bloodshot eyes! (Sudden explosion back into the fast strumming) YEAH, IN YOUR BLOODSHOT EYES! (Chorus) Oh, it’s a folk punk riot in the middle of the night! With a flickering candle for a stadium light! We’re the kings of the gutter, we’re the lords of the trash Building up a future from the cinder and the ash! Strum it ‘til your fingers start to bleed and to sting This is the only kind of freedom we can sing! (Outro) (Whoa-oh-oh-oh) Pass the bottle ‘round! (Whoa-oh-oh-oh) Burn the system down! (Final frantic strumming that ends with a loud, percussive slap on the guitar body) (Sound of someone laughing and a dog barking in the distance)
