I'm such a delicate child
You know I've always said my prayers
'Cause I didn't want to die
If it's all the same
At least that's what they say
They play it on a Sunday
But they know it's not a game
Well we're happy in the suburbs
Just sucking on our spoons
The people here are emptier
Than the surface of the moon
So Ground Control to Major Tom
Now what's a boy to do
Know everything is changing
But nothing ever ch-ch-changes
Make a home
And a hunkering ditch
And wait for all the clowns
To blow us all to bits
Ah shit
Well now look what you did
And everything was glowing
Everything was glowing
And we'll march in pairs
They're rolling up their sleeves
If someone threatens someone else
Well someone has to bleed
If it's all the same
Just arrogance and greed
So hold on to your hatchets
Batten down the hatches
Weekends follow weekends
Like the stations of the cross
And it's not that you're unhappy
You're just happy on and off
And it's nothing like the stories
That they taught you growing up
Dye your hair
And whiten up your teeth
No, no one really cared for
What was really underneath
Oh it's all the same
Just sycophants and creeps
And they're not really happy
They're not really happy
Oh, where did you go?
Did you get sick of fetching the stick?
The others were cautioned
But you're far too quick
We caught the bus
Maybe the NAT
It rolled down Harrow Road
Past the graves to Willesden Green
And everyone was laughing
And picking at the seats
They took all their best stories
Through an old rolled up receipt
Go home
And cower in a ditch
And wait for all the predators
To blow us all to bits
Blue screens
Turn it all to cash
No it's not really killing us
Just point it at a map
Weekends follow weekends
Like the stations of the cross
And it's not that you're unhappy
You're just happy on and off
And it's nothing like the stories
That they taught you growing up
So live with your parents for a while
Everyone's growing so nicely
Really coming along
And I hope that when thirty's finally here
You can sit in your bedroom
Shouting at your neighbors
So, there's a rising damp in the windows
And the gardens with flowers
You can count on your fingers
Oh, there's no love in this town anymore
But if you want to find love
You could always go to London