Not part of my revolution

You’re not part of my revolution.
You don’t march under my flag –
you don’t get that this is the real thing
not found in a shopping bag

You’ll just never be a rebel –
always blunt, not cutting edge.
You’ll always do coffee in Costa
while we meet outside on the ledge.

And while we march forward together,
changing the world line by line,
you’ll never know what it means
to be uncomfortable most of the time.

You’ll never get that punk rock
is more than humming a tune –
never realise that tomorrow
is always a day too soon –
never know that the truth is out there
not inside a holy book –
never realise that what you’ve got
is less than what you took.

You’re not part of my revolution –
you’re not a revolutionary brother.
You’re not a young soul rebel,
not a hero, or fighter, or lover.

You’re a decision by health and safety,
a boring compromise,
you’re the safest, dullest option
wrapped up in colourful lies.

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