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Same old boring Sunday morning |
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Old man's out washing the car |
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Mum's in the kitchen, cooking Sunday dinner |
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Her best meal moaning while it lasts |
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Johnny's upstairs in his bedroom |
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Sitting in the dark |
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Annoying the neighbors |
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With his punk rock electric guitar |
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This is the sound |
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This is the sound of the suburbs |
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This is the sound |
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This is the sound of the suburbs |
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Every lousy Monday morning |
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Heathrow jets goes crashing over my home |
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Ten o'clock broad-moor siren |
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Driving me mad, won't leave me alone |
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The woman next store |
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Just sits and stares outside |
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She hasn't come out once |
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Ever since her husband died |
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This is the sound |
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This is the sound of the suburbs |
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This is the sound |
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This is the sound of the suburbs |
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Youth club group used to want to be free |
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Now they want anarchy |
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They play too fast, they play out of tune |
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They practice in the singers bedroom |
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The drums quite good, the bass is too loud |
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And I can't hear the words |
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This is the sound |
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This is the sound of the suburbs |
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This is the sound |
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This is the sound of the suburbs |
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Saturday morning |
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Family shoppers crowding out the center of town |
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Young blokes sitting on the benches |
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Shouting at the young girls walking around |
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Johnny stands there at his window |
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Looking at the night |
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I said, hey what you listening to |
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There's nothing there |
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(That's right) |
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This is the sound |
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This is the sound of the suburbs |
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This is the sound |
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This is the sound of the suburbs |
