Southern Californians with mohawked hair never think twice.
1983 spoke your face into thin air, ran you into the ground,
and brought you up to your mother and to Michael Jackson.
I’ve never met your jaw line, I’ve never felt you breathe,
but I’ve seen you exhale on some stage at 8:03 PM,
red tape on each of your fingers, pointing down the crowd.
You never thought twice about never knowing college,
about never feeling academia holding you hostage,
but you shook your head about leaving the beach for the sake
of a keyboard dancing with a guitar singing to a pop song.
Rock and roll, Tyler baby; we’ll buy your tickets and
we’ll scream your name. Forget about California now,
forget the girl. I'm telling you, no one loves you like this city –
we’re a rare breed, we’re all animals. I can see you sweat,
hands in the air, eyes closed tight; I'll catch you later
through zeros and ones and plains of static, smiling aloud.
We all know we're special to you. Yeah, listen closely
right here, don’t think twice: “Detroit’s about to get neon.”