Mint Kicks Exit

(Amplifier

hum and a quick scratch

of a guitar pick down the strings) (Four quick drumstick clicks: One,

two, three, four!) (Explosive,

catchy garage-rock guitar riff kicks in)

We wet our whistles at a table in the back Joan and

Laura laughing, throwing off the track Cathy’s got a theory,

Patrick’s got the round But the bass is getting heavy and I’m

tired of the sound Got the Liila plush bag slung across my

chest I’ve done the social hour,

yeah, I passed the test But the night is pulling at me

and the air is getting cold I’m writing new equations,

man, the old ones got too old.

(Guitars switch to fast,

choppy palm-muting) (Vocals: Sassy,

rapid-fire, half-spoken) Jordyn gives the signal,

Mosa sends a text We’re skipping out the side door,

on to whatever's next!

Word of words, word...

Word, word, word... Meow,

meow, meow, meow, meow—let the riot be heard!

(The drums open up,

massive crashing cymbals, pure indie-pop euphoria) Yeah,

we’re pulling a French exit into the night!

Slipping out the back under the Rosemont light Got the mint green

kicks hitting the concrete floor We don't have to say goodbye to

anybody anymore From the forty-one down to the sixty-seven We’re taking the

shortcut to our own kind of heaven Yeah,

the party’s in the rearview,

the frequency is true And absolutely everything is tiguidou!

(Bass and drums only,

driving the groove) We’re hitting the metro,

leaving the static behind Got a 100 Gecs rhythm running through my

mind

No malinchismo, just the noise that we claim We’re tearing up the

rulebook and we’re winning the game.

(Tempo suddenly drops into a heavy,

slacker-rock sludge) (Vocals: Echoing,

dripping with cool indifference) Are we the ghost in the room?

Or are we just the only ones awake?

Forty-one. Forty-two.

Sixty-seven. (A loud, sarcastic fake sneeze) Meow.

(Maximum width, all instruments crashing together) Yeah,

we’re pulling a French exit into the night!

Slipping out the back under the Rosemont light Got the mint green

kicks hitting the concrete floor We don't have to say goodbye to

anybody anymore From the forty-one down to the sixty-seven We’re taking the

shortcut to our own kind of heaven Yeah,

the party’s in the rearview,

the frequency is true And absolutely everything is tiguidou!

(Music comes to a sudden,

chaotic halt with a single loud cymbal crash) Word of words.

See ya. (Sound of a door slamming shut) (Silence)