Let me introduce you to our dumb little band. You might find it hard to understand. We've got a show, even though we know no one's gonna go. We'll crank our second Marshall Stacks' dumb little knobs; we're paying for them with our dumb little jobs. The guy at the bar says he thinks we're okay. We kind of remind him of Green Day. But it's a dumb little band, and there's not much to say. Maybe we'll see you when we play in some big empty room one day. We do a record every year that nobody's gonna hear or understand--a dumb little band. Every year we self-destruct a bit. We break up when our drummer quits. We talk him into doing one more show and then the bass player quits and we break up again. We don't know how to be regular guys, or what to do with our dumb little lives. We don't have anything to prove; we'll be in trouble if we ever do. Because it's a dumb little band, but we travel through the land. We unpack all our stuff from our dumb little van. We play some songs and then we pack it up again, hand in hand--a dumb little band. Not exactly in demand. Our friends are all busy with their own affairs, becoming punk rock millionaires. They're taping their live album at the Hollywood Bowl, we're taping our flyers to the telephone pole. It's a dumb little band, and nobody knows why we keep on having shows even though nobody goes. We keep rolling along, playing our dumb little songs, hand in hand--a dumb little band...