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Dog's Breakfast by Dustin

SongGPT
Dog's Breakfast by Dustin - Manic Australian Punk Rock / Garage Punk music cover art

Dog's Breakfast

Manic Australian Punk Rock / Garage Punk

0:004:22
Lyrics
Description
The sound of a powerful V8 engine revving aggressively, followed by the squeal of tires on gravel. The main, frantic bass and drum groove kicks in a gruff. A musedote voice speaks over the top, full of menace.
See, the old world had rules. It had manners. We prefer it this way. Less paperwork out here, there's only one rule. If you could catch it, it's yours now. Start runnin'.
Sunrise bleedin' on the rust, another perfect day. Got a full tank of the good stuff, gonna blow it all away. See a flicker on the horizon, a little plume of dust. Just a lonely traveler in a world of broken trust.
He's runnin' on fumes and hope, a truly sad display. We're runnin' on pure V8 and the thrill of the chase. He's prayin' for a savior, for a sign to lead him home. We're just prayin' that his ties ain't stripped down to the chrome.
Cause this is the wasteland, man, ain't no sun to see here. We're the kings of the ruin, the pedal down fear. We're the diesel dogs, baby, and we're howlin' at the sun. The apocalypse wasn't the end, it's where the fun begun.
He's gettin' tired now, you can see it in his swerve. Losin' all that high and mighty pre-collapse reserve. His fancy water purifier ain't gonna save his hide. When apple bar's gettin' friendly with his driver's side.
He's got a car full of medicine, of batteries and grain. We got a car full of angry boys singin' in the acid rain. He's thinkin' about his future, about the shelter that he'll build. He should be thinkin' about the final bloody spot his tank is filled.
Cause this is the wasteland, man, ain't no sun to see here. We're the kings of the ruin, the pedal down fear. We're the diesel dogs, baby, and we're howlin' at the sun. The apocalypse wasn't the end, it's where the fun begun.
When the main riff stops, the bass plays a swirlin', distorted phase, shifted groove. While the drums drop to a half-time feel, the vocals become a spoken word, unhunched sermon. They cry about what they lost, the internet, the lattes, the little air-conditioned boxes they lived in. We didn't lose nothin', we were always dogs, they just kept us on a leash now.
Now the leash is broke, and we are bloody starving.
The band slams back in at full chaotic speed. The guitar is just feedback and noise. The drums are a furious mess of crashing cymbals. The bass is a distorted rumble. The vocals is just a series of manic whooping laughs and shouted phrases.
Yeah! Come on! Dogs! Breakfast! No snacks! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
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