Windspitting Punk

Give me just a second to grasp your two-bit theories
As that’s more than enough time I need to see through their innate queries
You’re telling me to shape up or ship out
But I’d never shape myself for something so offending as you and your kind
One day you sweetly sigh and say to yourself
«Music's my religion and I’m born again»
Next week your muse has got some corporate cash
And all of a sudden the tunes are crap keep your politics to yourself
Kid to me you’re just spitting wind a windspitting punk
With high-brow views a P.C. fool
Who’s saying nothing new again and again
What about the kids, piss-poor people and the broke or the sluts with
overflowing pockets?
Or the cursed fucks, pointin' pistols at the pope
Are they just martyrs fallen from your graces?