Give No Quarter

by Bet Your Life

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03:22
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02:22
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02:06

credits

released March 25, 2014

“Give No Quarter” EP Recorded at The Vault, Produced by Jimi James, Mastered by Greg Hatchette, Album Art by Dave Schultz. All songs written and performed by Bet Your Life, all lyrics by Scott Blinch. Special thanks to Nick Ashley, Just Another Punk Show, and London Indie Underground. CC BY-NC-SA, 2014

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Bet Your Life London, Ontario

Bet Your Life, an independent punk rock band based out of London Ontario, reared its ugly head in the early spring of 2011. Known for their catchy choruses and in-your-face vocal styling, the members of Bet Your Life have been writing and performing original music together for approximately eight years. ... more

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Track Name: Deadlights
Uselessness is a cold sweat
While swinging fists at an emptiness.
It's made up but it's earnest
As earthquakes travel to our wrists
And hands. It's completely pointless,
Like shouting insight at the television.
Yet there is something to be said
About the disconnected shadows on the wall.

And just like that the panic's up and gone away,
Leaving the mystery at fucked up biology.
When there's nothing to the weight on the other side,
We're left to scramble for the fulcrum throughout the night.

Relief is a day break,
Bringing the end to invention and outrage
At unfounded stirrings.
It's not much but I'll settle for the fatigue.
I wish there were reasons,
Deep roots to grasp, to disarm,
But it seems they come and go
As easily as the air we need to breathe.

My eyes are peeled wide open.
They spin around the room like manufactured truths.
My head, it rolls with apprehension.
It's ridiculous but I guess I'll write it off as waning youth.
Track Name: Hold Them Under
Never mind the red, it's right after left
Left after right and you're left with nothing
To tickertape to the virtuous
The trail drops off the edge
Don't try to separate the blood from the spoil
Just blow out the smoke and now you've got something
Presentable for the worst of us
Let's start the feel-good parade

You've gotta hold them under to tide us over
Give us a reason and you know we'll look away.

All the big plans, all the setbacks
All the angles, and the paths of attack
If you found a way to be right again
If you think you found a way to be just
Look at yourself, who the hell do you think you are?

You've gotta hold them under to tide us over
Give us a reason and you know we'll look away.
You're gonna hold us under to tide them over,
Give them a reason and you know they'll look away.
Track Name: Tom Bombadil
In a world of deaf and blind,
You are the only one alive.
You are a shepherd, herding sheep,
Wading through waters three feet deep.
You are the self-appointed lead
In the plight against tragedy
And you'll wave that flag around,
Use it to methodically remove doubt.

What else goes on inside that head?
Is there much room for more
Than self-centered embellishments?
I can't help but want to tear you down,
But I know the trouble you would cause
And there is not much room for that.

In a world of sight and sound,
You are the brightest one around.
You light fires at your feet,
Breadcrumbs not meant for clemency.
Your pedestal's a crutch,
Precarious in touch.
You make sure you're recognized
All your blunders martyrized.

I have recurring dreams
Of you brought down to your knees.
It's odd that you'd have that effect.
In your lonely fantasy, your living murder scene
You are the suspect and the dead.
Track Name: Brittle Bones
I've got little bones to pick
With all these skeletons.
They've got me rattling to my grave.
One by one I stuff them in
And ten by ten they spill back out
To point their middle fingers at my name.

Quit peering through my windows.
Quit standing at my door.

I've been working on my slight of hand
And sharpening my teeth
But I won't go dancing on my grave.
With vacancies in storages
On every corner here you can
Find somewhere else to lay the blame.

We break then we pretend that we meant none of it.
These dead are not my friends.
We waste and we collect, but we need none of it.
These bones won't mean the end.
Track Name: S Club
We're aimless, without antic
We are the undecided
We're blundered, dissatisfied
We'll never make up the time

We're burning books of prose and poetry
Those fuckers lied to me
There's no such thing as art
These metaphors are getting overwrit
And scrutinized to bits
There's no such thing

We're ailing, we're frantic
And yet there's nothing wrong here
We're hopeless because we hoped for more
Than simply doing fine

We're burning books of prose and poetry
Those fuckers lied to me
There's no such thing as art
These metaphors are getting overwrit
And scrutinized to bits
There's no such thing

Everything we've done
Everything we wrote
Everything is gone
But it doesn't matter now
And it didn't matter then
Everything was wrong