Turn those clapping hands into angry fists

Sleep on pillows made in Singapore.
Wrapped in comforters, sweating through sheets.
Drink your coffee in the morning, flown in on airplanes across vast seas.
And your house is made of wood, central air, central heat.
You’ve got your furniture of particle board.
Your doors are locked for, for safety.
And you walk in leather shoes, pants of denim, a black cotton sweatshirt.
And you do what you do because doing can start to form a habit.
And you drink all night long. And you sleep through the morning.
And if something doesn’t break. I’m just gonna go, go fucking insane.

And you sweep up the floor when it’s dirty
You do the dishes, when the sink’s full
And when the refrigerator’s empty
well it’s time, it’s time, it’s time, it’s time to go the store

You put your books on a shelf
Clothes arranged in the closet
You hang the things on the wall that you don’t wanna be so easily forgotten

I hate these songs
I hate the words
That the singer is singing to me
I hate this melody
I hate this stupid fucking drum beat

But I’m not gonna tell anyone
What I’m really thinking about
Keep them conversations on the surface
Just keep on smiling
Just keep on saying
Everything’s gonna be alright
It’s gonna be alright

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