pour your little heart out on a six string,
and I'll tell you how much it's fucking worth to me.
come on, it's plain to see that these chords come to 
easy,
they're as easy to repeat, a photocopied replication.
another song for "our generation."
an imitation of an imitation of an imitation...

my mom asked me "where's the voice in this country,
i said everybody's got one, they're just garbled and 
clumsy,
reared up to spit back referential newspeak...
in a postmodern fucking paradise.

KC's fear was her broken sprit. and that transmitter in 
her yard?
she said "it's good for something, I know, but I don't 
use it."
and "the politics of broadcast?" she said,
"come on! can't you tell me what the use is?"
i said, the truth is, i do this, mostly out of 
boredom...

and on and on on on... i know you won't request this 
song,
but this one's strictly for the good old boys in the 
back of the truck,
singing "turn up the radio as long as they don't sing 
about..."

the cracks in the mortar, they're tearing up the 
borders,
and they're building us a brand new town.
and i've seen it in the animals in kennels,
they truly represent the alienation that goes all the 
way down.
and then I hear about the "nuclearaniamercampaign,"
broadcasted vaguely from some passing TV,
“i'll think this through more clearly”...

and the boys in the back sit and tune through all the 
static,
and a voice flickers over the air.
and they don't understand the "this is not enough,"
oh no they don't pick up much past:
"turn the radio up, TURN THE RADIO UP!"
when she says "this life is trash," it's not that she's 
being dramatic,
she's just telling it straight up like it is.
her voice flickers and fades, ah nuclearadio...