Alright, let's get this party started right and let your brain rest

as we just press play and play the court jesters

The stress...(uh), gets to all of us at some point

until the DJ got you falling for a dumb joint

Dance halls held at gunpoint, with songs that explode and oversexed boys

Get the next toys and learning tools by no means, dudes

brain dead, tone deaf, so fresh, so clean

Would now be a good time to say "throw your hands up"?

"Nah, bro, just kick the next stanza!"

Don't get me wrong, I love it when you answer

but would you say "ho!", if I said "Pauline Hanson"?

Live from the Elefant mansion, imagine

this life so handsome, holding the Libs for ransom

We'd arrive at every gig in a chariot

and Rok Postya'd have a bass amp with a trolley to carry it



[Chorus:]

Now, if you're sick and tired of the news reports

and your modern-day life is a blues of sorts

Put your head in the sand with your Walkman on

put this goddamn song on and hum along... it goes

"La, la la la la", we can't hear you!

"La la, la la", we can't hear you!

"La, la la la la", we can't hear you!

"La, la la la"



He got up on his high horse, and jumped on a dumb song

Never been in it for money, but keeps getting the punts wrong

He's offering his lyrics, but nowhere they come from

his name is Junk John, alias is a month long

Dumb it down deliberately, then renegotiate the fee

hopes his opiates will open up a market overseas

But sober beats, irregular show proceeds (fuck that)

he took his bag to only eight ads in a row and unpacked

Eagerly awaited groupies up in his nut sack

smoke a lot of weed, but when he's platinum, he'll cut back

Public liability ain't covering that though

nor his rag flow, we think he a modern day Banjo

Battla Patterson, with a pad and a pen

it don't matter, as long as it rhymes, he'll be back back it again

He'd rather have it on them, but sadly, it's not my scene

the underground struggled up, for real, where's my limousine?

("Serious uncool, man

Where's my limo, dude?

We gotta go to Crackhead FM and do a spot with Kyle and Scrappy Dog!

Scrappy Dog? Oh, he phoned mate")



[Chorus]



Yeah, that's right, close your eyes, swing your hips

and fling yourself around with this song on your lips

Let your guard slip, drink, we all need balance

and check out, we rock a party with a stick and a carrot

And while you barrack for our Peter Garrett stances

and out of habit parrot all the proper answers

Indignant standards, chantin', signifying what's wrong

and then The Herd turn your concerns into a three minute pop song

So join us on a voyage, our immodest peripatetical

This dude'll take your blues on a mental sabbatical

fanantics, jump aboard and appropriate it as an anthem

or just nod your head and smile, try to pick up while you're dancin'

And chances they'll brand us naysayers

but if we add a catchy chorus, radio might still play us

Maybe pose for alley photos with scowling hoodlums

or bootleg my sex tape with Delta Goodrem

"(la la la la la la la, la la la la la la la, you serious?)"



[Chorus x2]