Any thirty, any night we meet beneath red skies.
Anywhere's your playground under Reno city lights.

Dodging screws, sweeping rocks. I'll push until I die.
When twenty deep at Greg Street, I've never felt so high.
More than sport, it was our lives.
We lived like kings in seven plies.
Seven plies. Seven plies.

Bloody shorts, broken bones, they never kept us in.
If 2-9-3 is in heaven, that's where I'll meet my friends.
More than sport, it was our lives.
We lived like kings in seven plies.
Seven plies. Seven plies.

All I ever wanted was street wear over hardware and ride away.
I'd fly away.
The kings and I with seven plies,
We showed the world the streets were alive,
and I felt invincible. Like no one could touch us.
You can't touch us.

We held those days in the palms of our hands like blind men hold new vision.
In this now here/nowhere, mundane world I still know there's one thing
that's pure.
And I know.....
That you can't destroy it.
That you'll try to contort it.
And just because it rolls,
doesn't mean that it's cool.