If you turn into something like a robot we will all be proud
With your metal arms
Your metal arms they make me feel like I live my life too fast

You push yourself too hard 
Now you’re quieter than a Sunday
Your armies will not march
Now you’re quieter than a Sunday

How (are) we meant to feel when networks have gone down 
Ceremony’s over and the buildings out of bounds
How (are) we meant to feel if the sunlight hurts our eyes
Walking in a straight line and it always leaves us dry

You push yourself too hard 
Now you’re quieter than a Sunday
Your armies will not march
Now you’re quieter than a Sunday