We solder our voices into borrowed amps until they spark, we turn it loud
Boots on scuffed linoleum keep time with the truth we can’t be told, we turn it loud
Basement posters peel like old declarations of survival and desire, we turn it loud
Every chord a refusal to be edited, every scream carefully unrolled, we turn it loud
The singer’s throat is a cracked-open map of cities that never asked permission, we turn it loud
Feedback blooms like wild circuitry, bright and uncontrolled, we turn it loud
We trade mixtapes like contraband saints, pressed into plastic confession, we turn it loud
A chorus of names that the mainstream tried to fold away but couldn’t hold, we turn it loud
The crowd is not a crowd but a constellation refusing alignment, we turn it loud
Dancing like something long forbidden has finally been told, we turn it loud
No stage can shrink what spills past its edges into the night, we turn it loud
We build a language out of distortion and daring, young and old, we turn it loud
And when the last note fractures into air and alleyway silence, we turn it loud