Hot damn, we’re the Good Timers and we’re coming to your town. We don’t drive the speed limit and we play our music loud. We’re so badass, we don’t listen all that well. You can tell the surgeon general we’ll see his ass in hell. We all grew up in the ‘burbs except Luke, he grew up in the mountains — spent four years locked inside his room learning to shred like Van Halen. Now we’re in the crossfire between the Punch Bowl and Kitties South, but we’ll play the Hi Dive till the day we die, or at least till we sell out. We already told you, man, the good times are here to stay. At least until tomorrow morning, when there’ll be hell to pay. We could drink a hundred beers tonight to show you how cool we are. But who’ll drive us back tomorrow when we leave our cards at the bar? Enter the Fantasy Machine. You can see whatever you wanna see. You don’t gotta be what you don’t wanna be. Livin’ off the fat of the land of the free.