Skilled, professional teams have created,

In magnificent sweatshops,

This gold-plated plastic gangster

With a car crash for a soul

Keep the motor running

Let the good times roll

On over the precipice

My life came flat-packed

Inside, it's falling to pieces

But the surface remains intact

At the drive-in with a car crash for a soul

You call this a party?

It feels like a funeral



And we thought we'd died alone

These braindead functions never felt like fun

And now's the time for us to say,