The Herd - We Can't Hear You lyrics
[The Herd - We Can't Hear You lyrics]
Alright, let's get this party started right
And let your brain rest
As we just press play and
Play the court jesters the stress
(uh) , gets to all of us at some point
Until the DJ got you falling for a dumb joint
Dance halls held at gunpoint
With songs that explode and oversexed boys
Get the next toys and learning
Tools by no means, dudes
Brain dead, tone deaf, so fresh, so clean
Would now be a good time to
Say "throw your hands up"?
"Nah, bro, just kick the next stanza!"
Don't get me wrong, I love it when you answer
But would you say "ho!"
If I said "Pauline Hanson"?
Live from the Elefant mansion, imagine
This life so handsome
Holding the Libs for ransom
We'd arrive at every gig in a chariot
And Rok Postya'd have a bass amp
With a trolley to carry it
Now, if you're sick and tired
Of the news reports
And your modern day life is a blues of sorts
Put your head in the sand
With your Walkman on
Put this goddamn song on and
Hum along it goes
"La, la la la la", we can't hear you!
"La la, la la", we can't hear you!
"La, la la la la", we can't hear you!
"La, la la la"
He got up on his high horse
And jumped on a dumb song
Never been in it for money
But keeps getting the punts wrong
He's offering his lyrics
But nowhere they come from
His name is Junk John, alias is a month long
Dumb it down deliberately
Then renegotiate the fee
Hopes his opiates will open
Up a market overseas
But sober beats, irregular show proceeds
(fuck that) he took his bag to only eight
Ads in a row and unpacked
Eagerly awaited groupies up in his nut sack
Smoke a lot of weed, but when he's platinum
He'll cut back
Public liability ain't covering that though
Nor his rag flow
We think he a modern day Banjo
Battla Patterson, with a pad and a pen
It don't matter, as long as it rhymes
He'll be back back it again
He'd rather have it on them, but sadly
It's not my scene
The underground struggled up, for real
Where's my limousine? ("Serious uncool, man
Where's my limo, dude?
We gotta go to Crackhead FM and do
A spot with Kyle and Scrappy Dog!
Scrappy Dog? Oh, he phoned mate")
Yeah, that's right, close your eyes
Swing your hips
And fling yourself around with this
Song on your lips
Let your guard slip, drink
We all need balance and check out
We rock a party with a stick and a carrot
And while you barrack for
Our Peter Garrett stances
And out of habit parrot
All the proper answers
Indignant standards, chantin'
Signifying what's wrong
And then The Herd turn your concerns
Into a three minute pop song
So join us on a voyage
Our immodest peripatetical
This dude'll take your blues
On a mental sabbatical
Fanantics, jump aboard and appropriate
It as an anthem
Or just nod your head and smile
Try to pick up while you're dancin'
And chances they'll brand us naysayers
But, if we add a catchy chorus
Radio might still play us
Maybe pose for alley photos
With scowling hoodlums
Or bootleg my sex tape with Delta Goodrem
" (la la la la la la la, la la la la la la la, you serious?) "
And let your brain rest
As we just press play and
Play the court jesters the stress
(uh) , gets to all of us at some point
Until the DJ got you falling for a dumb joint
Dance halls held at gunpoint
With songs that explode and oversexed boys
Get the next toys and learning
Tools by no means, dudes
Brain dead, tone deaf, so fresh, so clean
Would now be a good time to
Say "throw your hands up"?
"Nah, bro, just kick the next stanza!"
Don't get me wrong, I love it when you answer
But would you say "ho!"
If I said "Pauline Hanson"?
Live from the Elefant mansion, imagine
This life so handsome
Holding the Libs for ransom
We'd arrive at every gig in a chariot
And Rok Postya'd have a bass amp
With a trolley to carry it
Now, if you're sick and tired
Of the news reports
And your modern day life is a blues of sorts
Put your head in the sand
With your Walkman on
Put this goddamn song on and
Hum along it goes
"La, la la la la", we can't hear you!
"La la, la la", we can't hear you!
"La, la la la la", we can't hear you!
"La, la la la"
He got up on his high horse
And jumped on a dumb song
Never been in it for money
But keeps getting the punts wrong
He's offering his lyrics
But nowhere they come from
His name is Junk John, alias is a month long
Dumb it down deliberately
Then renegotiate the fee
Hopes his opiates will open
Up a market overseas
But sober beats, irregular show proceeds
(fuck that) he took his bag to only eight
Ads in a row and unpacked
Eagerly awaited groupies up in his nut sack
Smoke a lot of weed, but when he's platinum
He'll cut back
Public liability ain't covering that though
Nor his rag flow
We think he a modern day Banjo
Battla Patterson, with a pad and a pen
It don't matter, as long as it rhymes
He'll be back back it again
He'd rather have it on them, but sadly
It's not my scene
The underground struggled up, for real
Where's my limousine? ("Serious uncool, man
Where's my limo, dude?
We gotta go to Crackhead FM and do
A spot with Kyle and Scrappy Dog!
Scrappy Dog? Oh, he phoned mate")
Yeah, that's right, close your eyes
Swing your hips
And fling yourself around with this
Song on your lips
Let your guard slip, drink
We all need balance and check out
We rock a party with a stick and a carrot
And while you barrack for
Our Peter Garrett stances
And out of habit parrot
All the proper answers
Indignant standards, chantin'
Signifying what's wrong
And then The Herd turn your concerns
Into a three minute pop song
So join us on a voyage
Our immodest peripatetical
This dude'll take your blues
On a mental sabbatical
Fanantics, jump aboard and appropriate
It as an anthem
Or just nod your head and smile
Try to pick up while you're dancin'
And chances they'll brand us naysayers
But, if we add a catchy chorus
Radio might still play us
Maybe pose for alley photos
With scowling hoodlums
Or bootleg my sex tape with Delta Goodrem
" (la la la la la la la, la la la la la la la, you serious?) "