The moon goes out on you all in time, but it moves slow.
Your scars, like stars in the twilight sky, have begun to show.
Your claptrap, bushwhacked skullcap still remains closed
While your talk-fast, yip-yap gums flap all over the radio.

And if it feels right,
you think it must be right.
But it's the end of time for you, bloviettes.

Your poor-aim, short-game, express-train innuendo
glues to your two vocal chords and it forms your concrete tuxedo.
Your past spat falls flat, Rush, Pat, in the new scene.
In abandoned land's lone and level sands, you can reign supreme.

And if it feels right, you think they'll all think you're right.

But ain't you never learnt no chess?
Don't you know where things you say could move them next.
We're not the reactionary set
to whom you're used to being marketed.
It's no wonder you talk so apocalyptic.
It's the end of time for all you bloviettes.


from The Worker Bee, released February 3, 2017
Billy: Guitars/Vocals
Sean: Bass/OOOs and Ahhs
Todd: Drums/OOOs and Ahhs



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I Am Not The Universe Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

A Politically-charged folk-punk/power-pop collective, I Am Not The Universe sings truth to power and afflicts the comfortable, even outside the prearranged free-speech zone.

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