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Spikes and bikes and sharpened things.
Screams and strange distortion sings.
Cigarettes and empty bottles.
Motorcycle, hear the throttles.
Concert halls are filled with freaks.
Black and white and blood. It reeks.
The band is drunk. The crowd is high.
The steel-toed boots and fists do fly.
The crowd is moshing, screaming, crying.
Blood and sweat is flicking, flying.
"What is this?" you ask me now.
"Well, the punk rock scene in SoCal." Wow.
I miss my hometown in its glory.
All the punks and goths, so gorey.
All the people stained with blood.
All the knees covered in mud.
There you could be strange and different.
There you could be you.
But now I'm here.
And they're not near.
And nothing is the same.
It hurts.
I miss my home.
Strange.
Demented.
Black and red.
I'll return.
And like I said.
There I can be strange and different.
There I can be me.
I'll never change.
I'll stay deranged.
Until I can return.
And when I do, we'll have a blast.
A party in the halls.
The music will be blaring, man.
Yeah, you'll see.
We'll have a ball.