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Morning is yawning and out comes the sun |
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With no choice but to light nothing new |
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Opening eyes as the radio sighs |
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Three chords and any old lies |
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On to the sheets and maybe the streets |
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I imagine as vibrant and shrill |
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A comedy troupe of molecular soup |
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Atoms chiming in time and in tune |
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Give us circus and bread |
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It keeps us happy |
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But what do we do, now we are happy? |
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Gorging on everything all of the time |
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Passing it on to the brood |
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Fattening kids for the future ahead |
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In case we run out of food |
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The audience roar and move in for the kill |
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A spectacle threatening to spill |
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They want it right now, but they want it low fat |
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Expectancy drips down their chins |
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Give us circus and bread |
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It keeps us happy |
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But what do we do, now we are happy? |
