If you turn into something like a robot we will all be proud With your metal arms Your metal arms they make me feel like I live my life too fast
You push yourself too hard Now you’re quieter than a Sunday Your armies will not march Now you’re quieter than a Sunday
How (are) we meant to feel when networks have gone down Ceremony’s over and the buildings out of bounds How (are) we meant to feel if the sunlight hurts our eyes Walking in a straight line and it always leaves us dry
You push yourself too hard Now you’re quieter than a Sunday Your armies will not march Now you’re quieter than a Sunday