Music Box

Aged eighteen you used to daydream,
steer clear of the mainstream,
however loud they'd scream
. Told yourself you'd never do what they do,
always remain true, thought you'd change the world,
but the world changed you.
And you didn't even notice it happening, but here you are,
legs spread, coated in Vaseline.
Man, I'm not surprised you're sore,
you're nothing more than a corporate whore,
I wonder how much they bought you for?
Climb the ladder, live the dream,
get a job and a routine, be a cog in a machine,
at last your heart's grown as mean and cold as the shareholders',
you sold us out, and for what?
Are you having fun?
I'm just getting fucked cos I can't think of anything better to spend my money on.
We've come a long way haven't we?
Oh apparently so, look at all the clever things we've done,
but what's the point?
Seems to me we're just making shit for the sake of it,
supply and demand you buy,
head hurts from all the adverts you can't escape,
however hard you try, but so what?
Just as long as you earn more,
you don't give a fuck what you do,
who you work for, or what you produce.
Well whatever helps you sleep at night,
but God's honest truth,
"I'm just doing my job" is not an excuse.
So don't you dare tell me to grow up,
I know what you mean, you mean give up,
let go of your dream.
Well fuck you and the guns you never stuck to,
thanks for helping make a world with no one left to look up to.
Go ahead give your life to making the rich richer,
pay attention to the details, forget about the big picture,
but brace yourself one day it's gonna hit you,
you can't take your money with you.

And on that day,
the music box will open and this is what will play.

It's embarrassing,
but this is what happens when you murder heroes and idolise average men.
Strange, I though we were taught to be honest,
now for some reason we talk complete bollocks.
You told yourself you were gonna make every second count,
check it out, not exactly keeping your promise.
Eat, sleep, watch TV, go to the pub and spend 35 hours a week in the office.
And your job is so amazingly dull that your brain has melted and escaped from your skull.
I see that vacant look on your face,
well a culture based on war and waste can be an awfully boring place.
But a flickering screen is all it takes,
ooh, a celebrity falls from grace, wow, a sitcom that ain't funny,
oh I forgot, the aim is not to entertain it's to make money.
I'd like to make a toast to becoming the thing you hate the most,
cheers, here's to being bitter and twisted,
to constantly taking the piss and making jokes,
to never doing what you want to do cos you're scared of other people making fun of you,
to blatantly wasting your time,
to knowing people starve every day and pretending that everything's basically fine.
"Yeah, but it's not my fault," I hear you crying, "
perpetuating a system you didn't design isn't a crime,"
no, but in a system that's all about profit,
there will always be war if it lines someone's pocket.
And while you're doing nothing to stop it,
you're actually giving your endorsement, so what you do is important.
One day you're gonna realise you can't just ignore it,
cos if you don't oppose it, you support it.

And on that day,
the music box will open and this is what will play.