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