My ears sting from stretching and ring from music too loud.
I sip from the bottle till it burns my throat, suck on the cigarette till my lungs fill with smoke.
My bones ache from skanking in the pit and the floor is shaking under my feet.
It's not just music. It's a life style. A religion. Once you're in, you're in for life.
The amps are popping, the guitars are screaming and we're jumping along with it; our aggression is buzzing just beneath the surface, wishing to break free. Our leader steps up to the mic and all hell breaks loose.
Punks not dead, it's sleeping drunk. Or so I've heard on the street.