The Chills کے بول

You wrote the notes on cellophane Wrap me up and suffocate my ears Follow second hands ticking repetition Dressing up for pop pesimism It's a chokehold ticket to a one man show The critics were raving I didn't bother to go Masses of martyrs in the wrong ticket line I watch comedy classics because they're better than mine I poison myself to find a cure I manufacture sliding doors And novacain sells me short I poison myself to find a cure I manufacture closing doors I work in the factory where I was born