Caught red-handed at the Kwik Trip standing with a broken Budlight leaking out your backpack. Your heart starts running but your feet won’t budge. And now it’s too late to talk your way out of this one.
But you make your own luck, following your own gut. Maybe you’re the one that’s finally gonna make it out of this town. It’s all just so fake in this suburban hellscape. Maybe you’re the one that’s finally gonna burn it down.
That lip stick stain you left on the quarter backer’s lips when you were hanging down underneath the bleachers, till you found out that the coach could see you. But it’s not what it looks like. He just thought it might be fun to feel a little pretty sometimes. What’s the big deal if he wants to try? But you know their mind’s made up so you keep your lips zipped shut.
But you make your own luck, following your own gut. Maybe you’re the one that’s finally gonna make it out of this town. It’s all just so fake in this suburban hellscape. Maybe you’re the one that’s finally gonna burn it down.
Meet me at the outskirts of the suburbs where we grew up. We’re gonna drive till the engine dies, leave it all the rear view mirror. Tell all your friends we’ll be Suburban Legends. We’ll etch our names into the bus stop bench. Signed “we’ll see ya when we see ya” but we’re never coming back. It’s the start of the story but we’re gonna write how it ends.
