You Suck! But Your Peanut Butter Is Ok

Would you exist without all the fists the music clenched 
for you.
You're dressed up like a full-bodied anarchist.
Right down to your views. It's more than points that break.
There's no threat. Little promise to your life, so you take
 it out on music.
Your talk is cheap, I don't want to hear it.
Go preach to your fucking choir. You piss and moan for 
what's no longer your own.
You're pissing on the motives of my friends.
I understand what you're saying, what you're going through,
 but your point never ends.
The ticket price. The songs that you write.
"We've got out eyes on you. The internet is just a minute 
away. I'm telling on you."