128 - I hate people who do Pop-punk ( Definitive Version )

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You put spikes on a billboard, studs on a spreadsheet,
your anthem’s a coupon, your chorus .... pre-pressed meat.
You promise dirt, you deliver laminate,
a vinyl revolution re-pressed in corporate laminate.

You call it fightin’, but you’ve outsourced the pain,
manufactured sneers with a PR-trained brain.
You trade the gutter for green rooms and free drinks,
call it “authenticity” while your conscience shrinks.

You’ve turned the scream into a ringtone,
sold the pit for playlists, the mosh for microphone clones.
The anger you wear is a sticker, a brand,
a hashtag revolt by corporate hand.

Fucking poseurs in thrift-store jackets with perfect hair,
selling trauma like fashion .... oh, how you dare.
Pretend you’re bleeding ... no, you’re not even cut,
you’re a stage prop dressed up in a punk-cut.

Every chord a checkbox, every lyric a hook,
you studied the formula in a branding book.
You optimize heartbreak for maximum streams,
bottle up chaos and sell it as dreams.

You wave the flag of the street with a stock photo grin,
but your revolution’s a focus-grouped spin.
You half-shout “fuck the system” in the bridge for the drop,
then tweet a sponsored smile when the ad breaks stop.

You pronounce yourself dangerous between product placements,
play revolution on loop ..... adorable attachments.
You trade a manifesto for a five-year plan,
you monetize riot like an obedient brand.

Listen: punk was a bruise, not a boutique,
a pocket of ash in a city too neat.
You turn that bruise into merch, into a mall,
stamp “limited edition” on a cry down the hall.

You’re false as a headline, shallow as a hashtag,
you mouth the words and skip the part that drags.
You sign away urgency for a glossy cover,
and wonder why the streets don’t come to hover.

You are the apology in a ripped-up T-shirt,
screaming “authentic” while you hawk concert perks.
You are retrofit rage in a sanitized groove,
the sound of rebellion that’s been taught to move.

You cancel the risk and keep the look,
call it “evolution” ....  you sell the book.
Your revolution has a return policy,
full refund for fury, no responsibility.

We remember what noise smelled like ...  oil, piss, sweat, spit,
not mint-scented anger sold in a plastic kit.
You sell the soundtrack of loss in a consumer fit,
then ask why the old crowd won’t commit.

You don’t spit truth ....  you spit scripts, rehearsed,
packaged anger in rows, market-tested and versed.
You preach disobedience between airtime slots,
a rebel handshake bought in corporate lots.

Here’s the verdict, clean, cold and terse:
you are not punk ....  you are marketable curse.
The genre you pillage is heavier than your trend,
and every chorus you craft is just another bend.

So keep your pop hooks, your sugar-coated spite,
we’ll keep the grit, the rust, the midnight fight.
Because the street remembers what the charts forget:
authenticity is not a trend you can net.

You want punk? Earn it. Don’t fucking borrow it.
Don’t spray-paint the past with your stickered quiet,
don’t call it revival when it’s just a retail riot.
We’ll spit on your posters, fold your vinyl in two,
and the people who bled before will see through you.

This is not a sermon ...  it’s a scalpel, precise:
pop punk, you are plastic, a counterfeit vice.
You sell a rebellion with a glossy smile,
we keep the scars, the songs, the actual guile.

So keep your POP PUNK choruses, your sugar-coated resentment,
we'll keep the grit, the rust, the midnight fight.
Because the street remembers what the charts forget:
Authenticity is not a trend you can fit.

YOU MAKE POP PUNK... 
AND YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND A THING...
YOU'RE just a kiss-ass, kiss-ass...
and you deserve only my hate...

You want punk? Earn it. Don't fucking borrow it.
Don't smear the past with your adhesive silence,
don't call it a revival when it's just a retail revolt.
We'll spit on your posters, we'll fold your vinyl records in half,
and those who bled first will see right through you.

This isn't a sermon, it's a scalpel, to be precise:
pop punk, you're plastic, a counterfeit vice. You sell rebellion with a dazzling smile,
we keep the scars, the songs, the real cunning.

YOU MAKE POP PUNK... 
AND YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND A THING...
YOU'RE just a kiss-ass, kiss-ass...
and you deserve only my hate...

4503/7500

You sell rebellion in shampoo bottles, pop punk ..... your manifesto wrapped in bubble-wrap and logos. You chant “rage” between radio breaks, smile for the cameras, sign your soul on the dotted line ...no mistakes. You put spikes on a billboard, studs on a spreadsheet, your anthem’s a coupon, your chorus .... pre-pressed meat. You promise dirt, you deliver laminate, a vinyl revolution re-pressed in corporate laminate. You call it fightin’, but you’ve outsourced the pain, manufactured sneers with a PR-trained brain. You trade the gutter for green rooms and free drinks, call it “authenticity” while your conscience shrinks. You’ve turned the scream into a ringtone, sold the pit for playlists, the mosh for microphone clones. The anger you wear is a sticker, a brand, a hashtag revolt by corporate hand. Fucking poseurs in thrift-store jackets with perfect hair, selling trauma like fashion .... oh, how you dare. Pretend you’re bleeding ... no, you’re not even cut, you’re a stage prop dressed up in a punk-cut. Every chord a checkbox, every lyric a hook, you studied the formula in a branding book. You optimize heartbreak for maximum streams, bottle up chaos and sell it as dreams. You wave the flag of the street with a stock photo grin, but your revolution’s a focus-grouped spin. You half-shout “fuck the system” in the bridge for the drop, then tweet a sponsored smile when the ad breaks stop. You pronounce yourself dangerous between product placements, play revolution on loop ..... adorable attachments. You trade a manifesto for a five-year plan, you monetize riot like an obedient brand. Listen: punk was a bruise, not a boutique, a pocket of ash in a city too neat. You turn that bruise into merch, into a mall, stamp “limited edition” on a cry down the hall. You’re false as a headline, shallow as a hashtag, you mouth the words and skip the part that drags. You sign away urgency for a glossy cover, and wonder why the streets don’t come to hover. You are the apology in a ripped-up T-shirt, screaming “authentic” while you hawk concert perks. You are retrofit rage in a sanitized groove, the sound of rebellion that’s been taught to move. You cancel the risk and keep the look, call it “evolution” .... you sell the book. Your revolution has a return policy, full refund for fury, no responsibility. We remember what noise smelled like ... oil, piss, sweat, spit, not mint-scented anger sold in a plastic kit. You sell the soundtrack of loss in a consumer fit, then ask why the old crowd won’t commit. You don’t spit truth .... you spit scripts, rehearsed, packaged anger in rows, market-tested and versed. You preach disobedience between airtime slots, a rebel handshake bought in corporate lots. Here’s the verdict, clean, cold and terse: you are not punk .... you are marketable curse. The genre you pillage is heavier than your trend, and every chorus you craft is just another bend. So keep your pop hooks, your sugar-coated spite, we’ll keep the grit, the rust, the midnight fight. Because the street remembers what the charts forget: authenticity is not a trend you can net. You want punk? Earn it. Don’t fucking borrow it. Don’t spray-paint the past with your stickered quiet, don’t call it revival when it’s just a retail riot. We’ll spit on your posters, fold your vinyl in two, and the people who bled before will see through you. This is not a sermon ... it’s a scalpel, precise: pop punk, you are plastic, a counterfeit vice. You sell a rebellion with a glossy smile, we keep the scars, the songs, the actual guile. So keep your POP PUNK choruses, your sugar-coated resentment, we'll keep the grit, the rust, the midnight fight. Because the street remembers what the charts forget: Authenticity is not a trend you can fit. YOU MAKE POP PUNK... AND YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND A THING... YOU'RE just a kiss-ass, kiss-ass... and you deserve only my hate... You want punk? Earn it. Don't fucking borrow it. Don't smear the past with your adhesive silence, don't call it a revival when it's just a retail revolt. We'll spit on your posters, we'll fold your vinyl records in half, and those who bled first will see right through you. This isn't a sermon, it's a scalpel, to be precise: pop punk, you're plastic, a counterfeit vice. You sell rebellion with a dazzling smile, we keep the scars, the songs, the real cunning. YOU MAKE POP PUNK... AND YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND A THING... YOU'RE just a kiss-ass, kiss-ass... and you deserve only my hate...

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