Lyrics

[Verse 1] Freedom is the sweetest sound, like snorting drugs and breaking glass Freedom is the greatest word, like shit and puke and anarchy And freedom is the greatest thing, like shows and beer and seven-inches Freedom is the truest art, perfected in the three chord, Punk Rock song [Post-Verse] And when I look out over fields and mountains I hope one day they all can be anarchist squats Where all the kids are orphans and everyone wears patched-up clothes that say less-than-ten-word-slogans Oversimplifying problems with a catchy conversation, underground slang [Verse 2] Freedom is the freshest breeze, like beer soaked clothes and tobacco wind Freedom is the soundest cause, like distributing pamphlets and putting on shows Freedom is a glowing sight, like mohawks formed in just the right shape Freedom is the truest love; drunk fucking on the toilet at the punk rock show [Post-Verse] And when I look out over hills and pastures I hope one day they all can be spaces for bands to play Where all the kids just self-destruct and ruthlessly defend their right to misery Running from fears and scars and themselves by simulating into yet another formulaic authoritarian fashion show [Bridge] Where everything they think and say can be predicted in advance With pretty labels and trendy clothing Except it causes competitive politics, [?] choices in social pressures In all the night just like all the break-ins in junior high did before the enlightened ones saw the error in their ways It's all another social game It's all another set of rules It's all another bullshit answer with mental problems and social hierarchy [Post-Bridge] Just because you wear the patch doesn't mean you are the message I bet [?] would fall in love with Thomas Payne and John Stuart Mill It's all the same [Bridge] Why should this be any different? If you want to leave it all behind If you really want to leave it all behind It's not a fashion It's not in a music scene It's not in a political cause It's not in a religious doctrine It's not in a charismatic social circle or in a pill of ecstasy It's not in an economic class It's not in a fist-fight, or in the finger you give to the cops It's not in a room of forty bottles or the piss that's on the floor It's not in your cynicism It's not in your social fury It's not in your masculine posing It's not in how many hardships you've endured It's not what you can get away with Or what you can't avoid It's what you can get and whether you can change What you can give and whether you can see Whether you can hear it When others criticize you And if you can keep on wanting to learn