Tiring moments, fucked up minds

Empty faces, eyes that are blind

Flick through the papers, car crash death

Vacant pages offer no breath

Of hope, future, possibility

To those fucked up mindless people who haven't got the eyes

To see that the pages of The Guardian or the pages of The Sun

Are just a load of fucking lies, are just a fucking con

Why do they feed us rubbish? Why do they feed us shit?

Is this really what they think we want?

Scrapings from the pit?

Why don't they give us something which isn't just their lies

Their own particular angle from their own unseeing eyes?

I'm the chairman of the bored, and I'm asking for some truth

I'm the chairman of the bored, and I'm looking for some proof

That there's something more than their fucked up game

That their mindless lives and mine aren't the same

I'm looking for something that I can call my own

Which ain't a Ford Cortina or a mortgage on a home

I'm the chairman of the bored, ad I'm asking for some truth

I'm the chairman of the bored, and I'm looking for some proof