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