Go son, go down to the hotels
And see the pub bands whingeing there
Then go up into the stadiums
The bands, they are whingeing too

Father, why are all the musos whingeing?
They are whingeing ’cause it’s cool
Then why do all the punters listen?
Hell at least they’re not those Spice Girl fools

This is a whingeing song
A song inpired by goths
And dead Kurt Cobain’s wrath
This is a whingeing song
And they go on whingeing long

Father, why are all the critics list’ning?
They are merely boring, son
O, are they slightly braindead, father?
Yes, good music is dead and gone

This is a whingeing song
For angst-infected grunge
As bouncy as a sponge
This is a whingeing song
And they just keep whingeing on

O father tell me, am I whingeing?
This music truly sucks
O then I’m so bothered, father
They don’t deserve to earn all those bucks

This is a whingeing song
A song for Triple J
We should chase those guys away
This is a whingeing song
But I won’t be list’ning long
There’s too many boring songs
Full of angst and just plain wrong
And I’d rather eat a thong