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        I remember when I know why the cage bird sings
was challenged for the "encouragement to take action
in premarital sex, homosexuality, and the use of

        I remember when the Bible was banned and/or
challenged for being "pornography and obscene"
in Alaska and Pennsylvania in 1993.

        I remember when the The Autobiography of
was challenged in Flordia in 1994--
because it was "racist against white people"

        I remember when Jambo Means Hello: The Swahili
was charged with "degrading white
children" although it was a book for white children to
understand the African-American culture much better.

        I remember when Daddy's Roomate was removed
by most libraries by most of the United States---for
"promoting gay and lesbian relationships as appropriate."

        I remember when Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl
has been challenged in Europe and North America for its
"Depiction of the Nazis as 'cruel and heartless'.

        I remember To Kill A Mockingbird has been called
"racist and obscene" because it deals with an African-
American being accused of rape---being removed from
many Canadian lists and taken off of many U.S high
school programs.

        Censor me--censor my books--censor my thoughts--censor
my future at the palm of my hands. Go ahead and censor
my past--my past? you know my past? when my ancestors
where called niggers, spics, crackers, kike, censor my
books when they have taught me about the 6 million--11
--Holocaust, when slaves were brought to America
in exchange for molasses, the apartheid, the Malcolm-X,
the Dr. King, the Gandhi, the Ottoman Turks that wiped
out a third of the Armenian population in 1915, the AIDS
the needle and the sex that causes AIDS, the war, the
poverty, the guns, the truth.

        Censor me--censor my books--censor my thoughts--censor
the art that has been denied, censor the emotion and the
expression that lies within a photograph, censor System of
a Down, censor Rage against the Machine, censor the color
of my skin, the color of my eyes, the color of my heart, the
expression of my words.

        Censor the Channel Thy Majesty,
                censor the Come on,
                        censor the No nudity,
                                censor the I have witnessed,
                                        censor the Charlie,
                                                censor the common ground,
                                                        censor the Art Politic,
                                                                censor the guerrilla news,
                                                                        censor the dripping blood,

censor me.

to everyone on my watch list I will catch up to your deviations today but for now here we go again..

Guerrilla news
Rage Against The Machine
Art Politic
Channel Thy Majesty - alcoholic
Come on - dspayre
No nudity - utro
charlie - suture
common ground - n0deal
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*shrugs* Was bored. Took quotes from my poems, stories, and friends and came up with this. Okay, i guess.
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If two angles of one triangle are similar to two angles of another triangle, then the triangles are similar.

Recalling the memory of His geometry makes me sick with longing. Thatís the real reason I donít call Him every night, donít spend hours stuttering out words onto paper in some tremulous imitation of a love letter. The space I have behind conversation and human interaction is where He really lives, ready for me any time I need to remember. I donít even have to close my eyes before His own stare back at mine, revealing the storm clouds and stars that hover around His midnight-black pupils. The angles of His eyebrows, the slope of His nose, the arches of His eyelashes, the degrees of His gait, the radius of His smile when He sees me, the surface area of His strong embrace; sometimes the formulas back me into a corner where I try to understand, try to meticulously calculate every possible equation. I never solve for the answer before I snap out of my stupor, realizing His absence as it paints itself Red and stands Naked on the tabletop, begging for a game of tennis. [Love-Love]

This, however, is the final exam. Itís caught me off-guard, and my notes have gone missing. No postulate could prepare me for the way youíre smiling, though.

You stand there, an image of suave Italian imperfection. Something in me stirs, but I attempt to silence it. No, you donít fit into the equation. There can only be so many variables, remember? We learned that a long time ago. The hard way. You canít; I canít. [15-Love]

Perpendicular lines intersect to form four right angles.

Just like the angles of our shins when you tickle my stomach. No. Nonononono. What about His anglesÖthe theorem that proves that He is what I so desperately seek out? Iím not allowed to want you like this. Itís just an inequality that I canít balance; it canít happen. Something too ludicrous to ever be possible.

Maybe you donít notice the way youíre touching me, the choreography behind your fingertips as they graze the nape of my neck. I want to burst into some song of aside, straight from a musical, but I donít pull away. Give my regards to Broadway doesnít seem to fit this feeling. [30-Love]

The sum of the measures of the angles in a linear pair is one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.

A linear pair. Coordinates: (You, Me). I can feel your heart beating through my elbow, just inches away from the warmth of your chest. Suddenly all I hear are your breaths, and all I see are the meteor showers in your chestnut irises. Why am I the only one whoís star struck? [40-Love]

Supplements of congruent angles or the same angle are congruent.

The same. Youíre the same. Youíre my Opposite Overture, the one who truly possesses the power to make my intestines cartwheel across the Atlantic Ocean. I tell myself one last time that I donít want you, and then you inhale and you smell like ivory soap and philosophical Sunday afternoons and I see the dimple in your chin and the wonderful curve of your upper lip draw closer and suddenly that lip is pressed soft against my own as my command over my muscles evaporates and Iím touching you as youíre loving me and I feel so full that surely Iím going to spill some concoction of oregano and adrenaline on your furniture but you donít seem to care as youíre pushing harder and harder against me, burying your face into the back of my neck and getting high off my scent of herbal shampoo and I canít even remember the address to the place where He lives as you slip your tongue into my mouth and I want youóOh God, do I want you.

[Ace. Game.]

The theorem of infidelity states that love always counts for nothing.

[Tennis anyone?]
Actually had to look up formulas in my geometry notebook from last year for this one.

I don't know what to think of this. The girl upsets me.
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per aspera, ad astra.

to the angel of the halls of time:

          in the space of those untold-thousand terminal
          heartbeats silent; the treetop sunbeams gliding
          some forest thaw in spring where he was static
          bled like ruin and heather in the cloudshperes

          she danced not far, and whether or not she felt
          the dynamic of weathered-storm skyshallow, yet
          untired he moved to make not a sound and thus
          was fashioned the beginning of an end

          sometime in the past, wherewith all things were
          one, it seemed like it would only be forever from
          there on in (and upon reflection he succeeded in
          little but a pained sense of tragedy over time)

to the angel of the halls of space:

          that the air was seething with the instabilities of
          all quantum spacetime, there was no doubt, she
          could not help but observe the irregular edge of
          the new-fallen night stars

          and he pocketed the least of these, that she may
          never know, understood to be the finest jewels in
          his creation, understood to lie not far from a solid
          white-hot mass of emotive supercore

          he forged a world of pearled unicorns and delicate
          dragonwing scales, a shining sea to cross by ship,
          a forest of sad illusions, a vast sky of ink black and
          a star for each "i love you" never spoken out loud

to the angel of the spoken word:

          in transmission, much was lost of these things
          a parched tale for weary hearts, suddenly forgiven
          and disparate.  the unearthly dying of tissue never
          much to prevent the unavoidable separation of..

          look up to the stars;  curious and estranged - he is
          there, even as we oft accept things seen only with
          our eyes. thus either faith or science, to accept the
          inevitable drifting of bodies through the empty.

          could he be numb to the bite of space, as now the
          world has fallen away?  as there are naught here
          but rapid meteorites and space-channel static, she
          is (again) nowhere to be seen this side of the sun

to the angel of safe keeping:

          he in the quiet warmth of memory fragmentation
          a frail presence, once essential as food or water
          she stands in the stain of blood-on-grass, where
          once long ago he loved, yet loved not.

          but ghost-lights in the towers dimly shone as the
          sun went down on ivory hill, and from the farthest
          of horizons she came on an errand of the winds,
          sun-stained, she; formless and void

          grounded (somewhat) to the metal earth he was,
          and in that void found he such a home where (for
          fear of soon forgotten) placed within such as he
          could from what remained of his heart-strewn

to the angel of the magnetic fields:

          sad, then, she woke from the supercoil sunrise,
          he, embedded in the polar current, then spoke
          again of love, and not the ebb and flow of time
          as was the custom in those days

          while she moved on to other worlds, somewhat
          causing a vast distance to emerge in-between,
          he chained himself to the tree of life, and there
          remained (held fast, as it were) until finally

          scores of life-spans later, fissures in the earth's
          fragile crust caused his departure: at the edge
          of a dying world, he fell through into space and
          tasted the sweet of a collapsing magnetic field

to the angel of the sky and stars:

          to stay above, to look down from high orbit on
          some forest thaw in spring where he was static
          bled like ruin and heather in the cloudshperes,
          and shell-shocked, he, never to know the "why"

          in deep untired, and makes he not yet a sound
          drifting space-gloves undying and helmet shine
          while left to navigate the final resting places of
          every splintered thought and broken heart

          for want, for the thousand things one would die
          for, and the one thing for which to live. and write
          like there will be no tomorrows, a parallel to life
          itself, she might have said: per aspera, ad astra.

© 2004 jesse michael renaud

for want, for the thousand things one would die
for, and the one thing for which to live. and write
like there will be no tomorrows, a parallel to life
itself, she might have said: per aspera, ad astra.

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After Dinner, Afterlife

If it were you and I,
both of us
bearing crosses on our backs,
and lifted high upon our crimes

(like a Bible story
or a fairy tale from some
damned, banned book)

we'd surely be honoured
at the gates of Saint Peter,
or Hell
with medals, wine, wings
and songs of praise

for our lives within fables
and our ability to conquer
with only a blind mule -
and a switch.
Version 3 (Thank you, =zebrazebrazebra and ^imperfect)
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Interesting links :

- : info about Peter Singer, animal rights activist and Professor of Bioethics at the University Center for Human Values, Princeton University
- : Church of Euthanasia, a group of people against human supremacy
-… : Nazi propaganda archive : all about National Socialism from orriginal German sources, translated in English
- : Basic info on propaganda. Noone is imune to all propaganda.
- : American Libertarian Party
- : Libertarian National Socialist Green Party
- : American Nazi Party
- National Socialist Education Center
- : The Participatory Economics Project
- : All about Marxism
- : All about Anarchism
- ,… : All about Anarchism too
-… : coplyleft, the alternative to copyright
- , : National Anarchism
- : National Boschevism
- g8activist.cust.nearlyfreespee… : Anti-globalist Action Network
-… : Anarchist Communitarian Network
-… : : independent liberal media
- : Anti-war oriented news
- : Zmag, a general anti-capitalist site
-… : music by Davic Rovics : an awesome protest singer.
- : Official Micheal Moore site
- : Freemuse : An organisation dedicated to the freedom of musical expression.
- : Boycot-RIAA: An organisation dedicated to freeing music out of the hands of corporate elite
- : ALF : An organisation dedicated to freeing animals from corporations that torture them
- : ELF : An organisation dedicated to protecting our enviroment at all costs
- : Guerilla News Network : critical site on world politics
- , , (offline?) , , ,†† : Sites for historical revision.
- , , , : Political record labels
- : Political cartoons
- , , , , , : Non-nazi White Supremacy or seperatist movements.
-… : Blood and Honour
- : Information on Eugenics
- : New Black Panther Party For Self Defense
- : International Gay Pride organisation
- : National Association for the Advancement of Colored People
- : National Association for the Advancement of White People
- , , : sites for promotion of pre-Christian Germanic culture
- , , , , , , : Pro-Zionist organisations
- , , : Jewish sites against Zionism
- , , , : jewish conspiracy theory sites
- , , , : major general conspiracy theory sites
- : Historical Review Press
- : keep an eye on corporations
- : Hamas
- : Hizbollah
- : Sinn Fein, political wing of the IRA
-… : wonderful online poem by Woody Harrelson

Online political/philosophical non-fiction :
-… : DAS KAPITAL Vol I (Karl Marx)
-… : DAS KAPITAL Vol II (Karl Marx)
-… : DAS KAPITAL Vol III (Karl Marx)
-… : MANIFESTO OF THE COMMUNIST PARTY (Karl Marx and Frederick Engels)
-… : EUROPE AND AMERICA (Leon Trotsky)
- : THE ANTICHRIST (Friedrich Nietsche)
-… : BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL (Friedrich Nietsche)
-… : THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY (Friedrich Nietsche)
-… : FIRST PRINCIPLES (Herbert Spencer)
-… : THE MAN VERSUS THE STATE (Herbert Spencer)
-… : MEIN KAMPF (Adolf Hitler)
-… : THE MYTH OF THE 20TH CENTURY (Alfred Rosenberg)
-… : DIARY OF AN SA LEADER (Hans Snyckers)
-… : DID SIX MILLION REALLY DIE? (Richard Harwood)
-… : HOLOCAUST OR HOAX (JŁrgen Graf)
-… : GERMANY MUST PERISH (Theodore Kaufman)
-… : WITNESS TO HISTORY (Michael Walsh)
-… : VARGSMAL (Varg Vikernes)
-… : THIS TIME THE WORLD (George Lincoln Rockwell)
-… : WHITE POWER (George Lincoln Rockwell)
-… : THE JEWISH STATE (Theodor Herzl)
-… : THE ANTI-HUMANS (Dumitru Bacu)
-… : YEAR 501 (Noam Chomsky)
- : A QUIET REVOLUTION IN WELFARE ECONOMICS (Michael Albert and Robin Hahnel)
- : PARTICIPATORY ECONOMICS (Michael Albert and Robin Hahnel)
-… : WHAT IS TO BE UNDONE (Michael Albert)
-… : LOOKING FORWARD (Michael Albert and Robin Hahnel)
-… : GOD AND THE STATE (Michael Bakunin)
-… : THE STATE: ITS HISTORIC ROLE (Peter Kropotkin)

Online political/philosophical fiction :
-… : 1984 (George Orwell)
-… : ANIMAL FARM (George Orwell)
-… : THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA (Friedrich Nietzsche)
-… : TURNER DIARIES ( Andrew Macdonald aka William Pierce)
-… : CRITIAS (Plato)
-… : UTOPIA (Thomas More)
-… : 1984 (George Orwell)
-… : BRAVE NEW WORLD (Aldous Huxley)
-… : LOOKING BACKWARD (Edward Bellamy)
-… : EQUALITY (Edward Bellamy)
-… : THE IRON HEEL (Jack London)
-… : CAESAR'S COLUMN (Ignatius Donnelly)

Online Religious Books:
-… : THE VEDAS and other Hindu holy books.
-… : THE SIKH RELIGION (Max Arthur MacAuliffe)
-… : BUDDHA, THE GOSPEL (Paul Carus)
-… : QURAN
-… : A MANUAL OF HADITH (Maulana Muhammad Ali)
-… : TAO TE CHING (Lao-tzu)
-… : BOOK OF SHADOWS (Gerald Gardner)
-… : BOOK 4 (Aleister Crowley)
-… : LIBER AL VEL LEGIS SUB FIGURA 220 (Aleister Crowley)
-… : 88 PRECEPTS (David Lane)

Feel free to also check out… , which provides links to some great must-see documentaries.
This is a list with links to websites and online books that are recommended reading material for members of ~ artpolitics


If you feel that a certain link that in not included in this list should be, please send a note with the link to ~ illusions667.
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The King Of Pain And Pleasure

In the pale and misty evening
when the savage day is dying
and your eyes are dim with crying
there's a voice that calls your name.
Then the moonlight stains your pillow
and you know that you must follow
when you feel his spell upon you
and your body turns to flame,
for his skin is cream and honey
and his mouth is pomegranate
and the King of Pain and Pleasure is his name.

Ah, his voice is soft as snowfall
and his eyes are deep as oceans
and a silver bird lays sleeping
in his black and tangled hair.
He's half god and he's half human
and you long to be his woman
when you feel his breath upon you
and your body turns to flame,
for his skin is cream and honey
and his mouth is pomegranate
and the King of Pain and Pleasure is his name.

In the hour before daylight
when the stars are ice and fire
and you ache with dead desire
there's a whisper in your ear.
Then the nightwind stirs your cover
and you know that he's your lover
when you feel his hands upon you
and your body turns to flame,
for his skin is cream and honey
and his mouth is pomegranate
and the King of Pain and Pleasure is his name.
it's actually erotic/'s the first since the accident...i hope you guys like it.

for mecharogue, wynterashes,soulwrai and lamont
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Coagulative necrosis by 4pm

of excuses to stay Ė

Faking a mask-like face

so you canít see my heart break

at least three times a day.

Lonely haemostasis

under the surface.

Waiting for the second last factor

of the cascade Ė while again,

your mind is elsewhere.

Karyorrhexis before bedtime

suppuration collected Ė

tenderness both symptom and cure.

All I can see is you,

falling asleep without a care.

Cicatrisation left for tomorrow,

tiredness gratefully borrowed.

Those excuses, once again -

clutched to my chest.

The way I want you to hold me.

- - -

In my sarcoid dreams.
taken from my LJ dated 1st April 07

preview photo by ~ftsf legs by me.

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Both of the men in the silver-colored Passat are of German heritage, though the passengerís family left for America centuries ago on an endless search for work. The driverís family has lived in Germany, if not in Berlin itself, for eight generationsóhis parents had to trace their lineage that far back when swastikas crawled like spiders up the walls of the Reichstag. But that was a long time ago. It is history now, history that interests both men and can be discussed without any of the enmity that once existed between their two nations of birth.

The car pulls out from its place on the cobblestone road that gives this East-Berlin suburb part of its endearing charm. Lovely two-story houses fly past, clinging to their bright summer gardens. Each house has its own history. The driver, Peter, would later tell many stories about his home, how the old Jewish couple fled from it to safety during Hitlerís fortunately brief reign and how tapping wires can still be found inside, courtesy of the former resident, a member of the East German secret police.

ďItís amazing,Ē he says over one of many late-night cups of espresso with his foreign family friends, ďall this in one house.Ē

The conversation never stops after the table is cleared and the guests in bed, but repeats like a radio song in the mind during waking, sunlit hours. They talk over the arm-rest between seats now, not over a table.
If they were driving out the other way, they would pass the house with yellow grass and chickens, but today they drive toward the railroad tracks, where the driver turns off the car for the prolonged stop to follow. The familiar noise of the car engine against the cobblestones stops, leaving a silence of mechanics the passenger, Dwight, is unaccustomed to in automobiles. The car goes forward again, leaving the trees of the suburb behind it.

Within a few turns, they reach the remnants of the Berlin Wall, painted with a childís love of life and color and an old manís dream of peace. It is art now, but one dare not call it beautiful. The eerie knowledge of its former life as a murderer and breaker of families stirs silent reverence. It is surreally close to the cobblestone streets of the beautiful neighborhood, with its gardens and wood houses and trees. All the history books in the world could not prepare a foreigner for how close this concrete monster is to homes. Bullet holes mar its face like a pox. Peter mentions how it went up practically overnight.

ďTerrible,Ē he finishes, his manner of speech sophisticated and his verbal syntax elegantly German, even though he speaks English to his passenger, who speaks only the foreign language of computer codes. Every time he talks of history, that is how he ends his explanations. Terrible.

The buildings have become grey, so different from the houses of the quiet cobblestone street. It is quite visibly East Germany to those who lived in the times of the Iron Curtain and knew what a city looked like dressed in the garb of Soviet control. More bullet holes, this time in the sides of buildings, buried in the bared backs of apartments. There are too many to be fixed right away, especially in this part of the city.

Everything that was once East Germany is poor, Peter explains. However, ďBavaria is rich.Ē Thereís something in his voice when he says this, not hate or envy, but matter-of-fact bewilderment. Bavarian cities are healthy; why canít they give to those that are sick? Dwight remembers Munich from the previous summer, its bright streets and trees in sanctimonious contrast to those of East Berlin. As the European Union spreads across the continent, the richer western regions will be expected to pay for the medical bills of poorer nations hit by the cancer of Soviet centralization.

Many times, Peter points out a certain building. That one, there, was once a work of art in itselfóit was burned in the war. You can see where a large chunk of wall fell off that building, the plaster shows like a scar. Terrible.
Instantly, the grey gives way to the color and vigor of West Berlin. The transition is at once breathtaking--the Technicolor awakening in The Wizard of Ozóand painfully quick. Neighborhoods were bisected, workers from businesses, friends from friends, grandmothers from grandchildren. Here, trendy clubs and restaurants line the streets, intermingled with apartments and equally trendy offices. These buildings bow to those of a more historical nature as Peter finds a place to park by the Brandenburg Gate. It is not longer a part of the city through which one drives, unless one would allow the soul of it to fly by the window.

There are many places of historic consequence in this area, from Hitlerís bunker to the Reichstag itself, which has seen many changes during this century. The no-manís-land between East and West was in this area. Between the place of Hitlerís death and the Gate, there lies a field of stone slabs, all of varying sizes, stretching for what seems like an eternity bound within a few city blocks. It bears a resemblance to the Jewish Cemetery in Prague, the ancient and broken grave markers pushed up and up as medieval city regulations confined the burial ground to that area alone. It is still under construction, but when finished, will be a Holocaust Memorial.

Peter and Dwight have met with the rest of their families now, who had ridden in a different car. The American family views the Memorial as a responsible thing, a gesture long overdue. Their hosts shake their heads. It is not such a simple thing. One of the companies involved was a producer of Xyklon B for the concentration camps. Whether or not the company was trying to atone for its involvement, it created controversy, controversy that divided the city along moral, not geographical, lines. Everyone regrets the Holocaust, they say, but this Memorial is abstract and frightening, a subject of mourning rather than the progress the city most desperately needs.

Symbols of progress thrive around the historical area, particularly on the West side. The two families walk under many buildings with Roman architecture, cross a cobblestone pedestrian area, and come across an enclosed square. A giant screen proudly displays the current standings of the Tour de France, which has a large following here. It is quite apparent that no one views this as an intrusion on their city, but something that can be enjoyed, new with the old.

That is what Berlin is. The two families wind their way through city streets, a fascinated procession. Above the high walls of the beautiful blocks of apartments that characterize European cities, one can see domes and towers. Each building is ageless, though it has its ancient origins and modern restorations. There is so much preservation in these city streets, yet so much progress. Here, a person is not in a period of time, but solely in a place, resplendent in all its history and meaning. The person is more indicative of the time than the city itself.

It becomes clear, then, why Germany and Old Europe will never support another war. Yes, war brought history, but a terrible history, one that buried bullets in the walls of museums and classical buildings, that caused a need for a Holocaust Memorial, that tore the broken body of the city, and the country, in two. Now that East and West have returned to their former state of embrace, they will protect their unity, their art, and their identity through the only means they have not yet tried. The country will be protected by no army, but by peace.

A quiet dignity fills the city. Berlin fell over half a century ago, but has risen in a way only defeated aggressor countries can. No more, its risen form cries out. There will never be revenge taken for World War II or the separation that followed. Berlin sees its chance to move forward, and so do all its people. Yet, they will never forget their history.

The future of Europe, one hears again and again, lies in a united East and West. In time, Berlin will show the world where that future goes and what it entails. But the city is not ready yet: It is still healing. The wounds are closing, the collective mind of the city moving on from the time of injury. The scars will always be there, and Berlin will bear those scars as a warning to countries wishing to try their hand at the game of war. It is no game, those scars call. Look and see how much there is to lose, more than any game.

Peter and Dwight will meet their families again at Peterís house in the idyllic suburb seemingly so removed from violence and war. The light of the sunset hits the Brandenburg gate as they near their car. The light is perfect, he tells his fellow student of true history, for a picture. It is art waiting to be captured by man, waiting to replace what was lost.

Berlin has taught her lesson to one more man and one more generation. More importantly, Berlin has taught this lesson to someone from far away, someone who can take the lesson with them to people who will never see the Brandenburg Gate but in that sunset photograph. The city will only heal when everyone understands.
The final project for the Junior Year literary journalism unit, inspired by my visit to...Berlin. The beginning feels a bit stuffy, but I hope to refine it further.
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"Fuck You, Green Day"
by TriforceJ
sung to the tune of "Holiday" by Green Day

Hear the sound of the lyrical shame
Causing me to write this song to flame (Ghey!)
The shameful band who died in Emo's name

Billie Joe, crooning out of key
Causing me to scream in misery (Ghey!)
I plead to him to shut his mouth today

Some say this band has soul, but that's all crap and lies
We've heard your stupid song too many fucking times
Fuck you, Green Day

I remember when Green Day died
Because the band had to trash their punk-rock pride
And it was the night that I sat down and cried

The American Idiots scream
But no-one cares about your Broken Dreams
Put the band on an indefinite Holiday

Some say this band has soul, but that's all crap and lies
We've heard your stupid song too many fucking times
Fuck you, Green Day

"The representatives from America have the floor"

BIllie Joe plays political grabass
To piss and moan about government
Rips his integrity to shreds
He deserves harsh punishment
Snap crash goes the broken CD, man
And to those who bought this LP:
Just because you're faithful buyers
It doesn't mean a thing to me
Just cause
Just because you killed the old Green Day

Some say this band has soul, but that's all crap and lies
We've heard your stupid song too many fucking times
Some say this band has soul, but that's all crap and lies
We've heard your stupid song too many fucking times
The people say Fuck you, Green Day
This song parody pretty much sums up my feelings about the new "American Idiot" Green Day. There is mature content due to foul language, but I really don't care.

Green Day and all names, songs, and albums are © by Green Day.
This song parody is © by TriforceJ.
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