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 if 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
You push yourself too hard
Now you’re quieter than a Sunday
Your armies will not march
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