---

Once upon a time in the eighties, metal bands

Worked hard to turn out albums that were good

Nowadays, most aren’t worth a damn

But it’s fine, no one cares, it’s understood

Forty minutes of you phoning it in

While the label claims “a true return to form!”

But you didn’t try, and you won’t again

Doesn’t matter, it’ll sell like a storm

Hey

We can’t blame you, take the paycheck

And milk your fame for all that it’s worth

We’re

Just mad we have to put in effort

We hope to get where you are so we don’t have to work

Elder statesmen of metal, lying in repose

Where is the speed, where are the riffs?

Doesn’t say in your contract that you can’t coast

On prior success from when you gave a shit

Tap a little more self-respect into the ashtray

As you fall asleep at the fretboard

No motivation, you get paid anyway

You punched out as soon as you hit record

Oh

Who cares, right? Who needs a legacy?

We envy your position in life

And

Can’t wait until we’re well-established

And nothing can dislodge us from those dizzying heights

You once

Were gods of speed and death

Your riffs

Would hammer and aggress

Setlists

Full of song after song

But then

Something went wrong

You lost

Your zeal for the job

But still

Make junk for the mob

Can’t wait

Till we’ve earned those rights

To not

Have to try sounds nice

Would you help us out and tell us how it’s done?

Just tell us, how did you become so blessed?

Getting rich for horseshit sure sounds fun

So when can we stop doing our best?

Say

What is the magic number?

Is five solid albums enough?

To

Relax and take it easy

And start churning out some halfhearted fluff

Like you?