Artist: The Herd Album: The Sun Never Sets Song: We Can't Hear You Translated title:
We Can't Hear You letra
We Can't Hear You songtext
We Can't Hear You lyrique
We Can't Hear You testo
We Can't Hear You referencias
All right, 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 letters for Branson. 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', we can't hear you!
He got up on his high horse, and jumped on a dumb song. He's never been in it for money, but keeps getting the [poets?] wrong He's offering us lyrics, but not where 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 an market overseas, but sober beats, irregular show proceeds, fuck that he took his bag to only 8 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 the pad and the pen, it don't matter, as long as it rhymes, he'll be back back it again, the[rabid have little?], man, 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 a spot with Kyle and Scrappy Dog! Scrappy Dog? Oh, he phoned, mate
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', we can't hear you! 'La, la la la la', we can't hear you!
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 3 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, and try to pick up while you're dance in 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, are you serious?)
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'
'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'
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