My band doesn’t make
late night long drive louder please
music, music to forget racists to,
music to smash states by,
music to study war by.

My band doesn’t make
late night all alone in the room earbud
music, music to lower your eyes by,
music to make love to,
music to make you feel unwanted after.

My band’s got a good name, even if only my band knows it.
When we’re on the street
it sounds like keys being struck
on a glass xylophone.  Everyone around us at once
gets well.  America, we’ve got your new anthem

right here.  It’s a happy crotch-based
tune, not old school though it went there once
and not new school though it’s going there now.
My band doesn’t believe in school — we like
the learning, hate the sanctimony.

My band is working for you, America,
working for your love, working for your trust,
scorning your dollars a little.  More than a little
in fact.  We bed with them because they’re warm
in piles in the back of our van.  But we’re not really

friends.  We’re not really friends with you, either.
We’re just the band setting up for the high school dance,
tearing down after the wedding,
lugging equipment to the curb way too late at night.
We’re your band, America,

with our hidden good name
and your new anthem put to the test.  We’re gonna be
somewhere else later tonight, don’t know when
we’ll be back this way, but if you could give us a call
we’ll consider it.  In the meantime

we’re not the band that makes good time music,
music to cheat death by, music to hook horns by.
We make daylight music with glass xylophones
and steel guitars, late night music with full string
sections backed up by wolves.  My band

doesn’t make easy music for this hard country,
doesn’t overcomplicate the easy parts,
doesn’t much care if you like the album.
My band’s got a thousand miles to go
before the next breakdown.

Hope you can make the gig —
it’s gonna be something.