You wouldn't construct your life manifesto in the form of a plea to a high court judge
To be sentenced to life in a percolating cesspool, where freedom wears the veil of a treadmill trudge
So why then, as you drift through the bountiful void, of the cavernous concourse to the bottleneck passage
You trade your blank canvas at the men's club with the cocoon boys
For laborious errands and the works of a savage
Shine a torch in the eyes of the beholder, burn the curriculum, the low hanging fruit
A thread of white chalk encircles the smouldering stake in the ground, where hangs an ill-fitting suit
The crime scene trembles at the return of old Gustav, a transmission plays on a looped tape machine
A consolation monochrome empathy telegram, with crossbred thoughts picked apart at the seams
Fabricators - Hymn for Toby Lyrics
Fabricators - Hymn for Toby Lyrics
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You wouldn't construct your life manifesto in the form of a plea to a high court judge
To be sentenced to life in a percolating cesspool, where freedom wears the veil of a treadmill trudge
So why then, as you drift through the bountiful void, of the cavernous concourse to the bottleneck passage
You trade your blank canvas at the men's club with the cocoon boys
For laborious errands and the works of a savage
Shine a torch in the eyes of the beholder, burn the curriculum, the low hanging fruit
A thread of white chalk encircles the smouldering stake in the ground, where hangs an ill-fitting suit
The crime scene trembles at the return of old Gustav, a transmission plays on a looped tape machine
A consolation monochrome empathy telegram, with crossbred thoughts picked apart at the seams
To be sentenced to life in a percolating cesspool, where freedom wears the veil of a treadmill trudge
So why then, as you drift through the bountiful void, of the cavernous concourse to the bottleneck passage
You trade your blank canvas at the men's club with the cocoon boys
For laborious errands and the works of a savage
Shine a torch in the eyes of the beholder, burn the curriculum, the low hanging fruit
A thread of white chalk encircles the smouldering stake in the ground, where hangs an ill-fitting suit
The crime scene trembles at the return of old Gustav, a transmission plays on a looped tape machine
A consolation monochrome empathy telegram, with crossbred thoughts picked apart at the seams
Writer: Mark Beckett, Oliver Matejka
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid
Copyright: Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid