March on, worker bees. Know your enemy. . We take our orders given by the queen. Were not the killers, were the worker bees. If you resist us you will feel our sting.
Today I walked down our old street. Past the diner where we'd meet. Now I dine alone in our old seats. The cold wind blows right through my bones. And I feel like I'm getting old.
Urban Hipster, the new gangster frontin' by the club. A new wave mannequins packin' haircuts, instead of packin' guns. Magazines form overseas, won't teach you how to feel.