Sunday morning,
there's nothing to do.
It's been the same way
for a week or two.
We're spare parts for the machine, the reserves
We drink to fill our empty hearts.
All we're missing is content, we've lost track
of our perfect lives.
We waste our youth here
in the smokescreen
and live so hard
we won't notice if we die.
We're spare parts for the machine, the reserves
We drink to fill our empty hearts.
All we're missing is content, we've lost track.
We flush our lives down the drain.
We got everything we need all paid for.
Our parents bought us better days.
All we're missing is their love, we've lost track
of our perfect lies.
The next generation, the future, dressed in fashion
A million special people march to the same beat.
(We) religiously depend on consumption to fill up our souls,
(but) deep inside ourselves we all know we are fucking useless