These lyrics are generally inaccurate -- but I'm not sure of what the right words. Any guesses? I'll post the whole thing as accurate as possible, throwing "**" to open/close questionable parts:
40 million refugees with no place on this earth to call their home
One for every aimless graduate with nothing else to show for it but loans
And those of us who make our mark using someone else's blood
Our western stain won't wash away, won't vanish in the flood
It's just deeper with each hurricane and tidal wave and war
Oh whoa
We want everything we see and once it's gone we just want more
Atlas had those shoulders, we've got Ambien and Jamesons and blow
To bind us in a bubble, keep the newsprint nightmare distant and remote
But when we wake in guillotines and pitch our screaming fits
When the Governor strikes up the band and gags our parted lips
When the worst case shows up dressed and dazzling ready for the ball
Oh whoa
Boy that bubble's bound to burst and what a tragic way to fall
The tabloids tell us hate the rat who strikes those subways closed and puts you out
Forget those 50 hour tunnel weeks inhaling steel dust poison through his mouth
Well if he don't deserve a pension that makes his family feel secure
If we're now so disconnected it's our reflections we ignore
And if our constant choice is skimming past the writing on the wall
Oh whoa
Then I'm sad to say we're lost and I'm embarrassed for us all
So most days I can't put to rest the burning city smoking in my mind
And I play pretend the principals are nothing more than actors running lines
And I stumble through a movie set where torture victims laugh:
An abandoned journalist who juggled knives and daggered glass
While they entertain a mob of Heads of State and CEO's
Oh whoa
I stagger past anarchist extras through saloon doors painted gold
So I turn and I see Uncle Sam, walks out of wardrobe ready for the shoot
So I walk right up and talk to him, I tell him that I'm scared and I'm confused
While they test the cameras out and get the lighting right, while catering fills coffee cups and carves up apple pie
And while the stylists trim his beard and straighten those lapels
Oh whoa
I ask NO IDEA? him drive us straight to hell
and as my daydream ends he stands there shamed, a shocked and shattered shell
But there's never any answer for my starving tongue to tell
Oh whoa
Cause the director's shouting action and from off set it's just as well
These lyrics are generally inaccurate -- but I'm not sure of what the right words. Any guesses? I'll post the whole thing as accurate as possible, throwing "**" to open/close questionable parts:
40 million refugees with no place on this earth to call their home One for every aimless graduate with nothing else to show for it but loans And those of us who make our mark using someone else's blood Our western stain won't wash away, won't vanish in the flood It's just deeper with each hurricane and tidal wave and war Oh whoa We want everything we see and once it's gone we just want more
Atlas had those shoulders, we've got Ambien and Jamesons and blow To bind us in a bubble, keep the newsprint nightmare distant and remote But when we wake in guillotines and pitch our screaming fits When the Governor strikes up the band and gags our parted lips When the worst case shows up dressed and dazzling ready for the ball Oh whoa Boy that bubble's bound to burst and what a tragic way to fall
The tabloids tell us hate the rat who strikes those subways closed and puts you out Forget those 50 hour tunnel weeks inhaling steel dust poison through his mouth Well if he don't deserve a pension that makes his family feel secure If we're now so disconnected it's our reflections we ignore And if our constant choice is skimming past the writing on the wall Oh whoa Then I'm sad to say we're lost and I'm embarrassed for us all
So most days I can't put to rest the burning city smoking in my mind And I play pretend the principals are nothing more than actors running lines And I stumble through a movie set where torture victims laugh: An abandoned journalist who juggled knives and daggered glass While they entertain a mob of Heads of State and CEO's Oh whoa I stagger past anarchist extras through saloon doors painted gold
So I turn and I see Uncle Sam, walks out of wardrobe ready for the shoot So I walk right up and talk to him, I tell him that I'm scared and I'm confused While they test the cameras out and get the lighting right, while catering fills coffee cups and carves up apple pie And while the stylists trim his beard and straighten those lapels Oh whoa I ask NO IDEA? him drive us straight to hell and as my daydream ends he stands there shamed, a shocked and shattered shell
But there's never any answer for my starving tongue to tell Oh whoa Cause the director's shouting action and from off set it's just as well