Punk’s not dead yet.

 

I got this philosophy, man.

That if you hang around long enough, even if you ain’t got a lot of talent, people will accept you.

All you got to do is survive.

This is not just about partying any more.

I did that back in the 1970s when I loved rock.

Sure, these are the 1980s and people say Punk is dead.

I think it’ll come back and I’ll be here when it does.

Sure, I miss the old days before the big breakup, when we used to play to packed houses.

We had one hell of a band back then.

This Christmas we had three people and two of them were bartenders.

But if I hear someone beg us to play The Doors once more time, I’ll be playing Jail House Rock for murdering them.

I miss the chicks, too.

We don’t get the quality in gals we used to get.

Now they’re either too old or too young, and I don’t figure on going to jail for no 16 year old’s blow job, so I take the old broads and think of better times past and future.

We ain’t as good as we used to be either. But with Punk I figure we don’t have to be.

Give people a dose of Romones and they’ll roll over for you.

The problem is: I can’t wait too long for it all to come back.

I’m staring to see wrinkles in the mirror and blood in my pee. I figure if Punk don’t come back quick, I might not be here when it does.

I never figured I would live forever, but I’d like to live long enough to really rock again.

If rock’s dead, then I’ll have to take some blame for killing it.

But you can’t kill Punk, even with a hammer.

You only kill the messenger.

People like me.