Tiring moments, fucked up minds,
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Empty faces, eyes that are blind.
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Flick through the papers, car crash death,
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Vacant pages offer no breath.
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Of hope, future, possibility,
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To those fucked up mindless people who haven't got the eyes to see,
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That the pages of The Guardian or the pages of The Sun,
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Are just a load of fucking lies, are just a fucking con.
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Why do they feed us rubbish? Why do they feed us shit?
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Is this really what they think we want? Scrapings from the pit?
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Why don't they give us something which isn't just their lies,
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Their own particular angle from their own unseeing eyes?
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I'm the chairman of the bored, and I'm asking for some truth, truth, truth, truth.
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I'm the chairman of the bored, and I'm looking for some proof, proof, proof, proof,
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That there's something more than their fucked up game,
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That their mindless lives and mine aren't the same.
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I'm looking for something that I can call my own,
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Which ain't a Ford Cortina or a mortgage on a home.
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I'm the chairman of the bored, and I'm looking for some truth, truth, truth, truth.
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I'm the chairman of the bored, and I'm asking for some proof.
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Chairman Of The Bored
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Crass |