Dear Bill Hicks, It's pop o’clock, they still suck Satan's cock. It's a shame, All they want is money and the fame.
Coz it's not over now And we've got to back right up, Or we run the risk of burying what started off so smart. Well it's not over now, And we never will give in, We'll flush away those mass produced pop turds that float to the top.
Dear Bill Hicks, The passion's wained, There are no Kurt Cobains. Simon's fat cow got milked to death, No substance left remains.
Sick of hip-hop lite, And what the auto tune can hide. Beat the Brit-School brats, Joey go at them with a baseball bat.