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Artist: This Routine is Hell
Dirty hands, blistered feet,
playing in the sun but now we’re feeling the heat.
Summer in the suburbs, safe and sound,
knowing what it’s like: nostalgia brings us down.
We’ve roamed the streets, always out of luck.
The glory days, but now we’re sobering up.
Scraped our knees to the barren ground.
It’s only skin, but nostalgia keeps us down.
Yet we still raise our fists to the heedless skies.
We piss on god, our ethos never dies.
Nostalgia fucks us up.
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