I mean, the doctor says the rhythm is steady. Perfectly functional. But you look at the face in the glass and you wonder... is there anyone left behind the valve? Or is it just the plumbing? The ticker counts the seconds of a borrowed afternoon While the landlord in the counting house hums a leaden tune A rhythmic thud against the ribs, a piston in the chest Just a biological remainder of a life we once possessed The wallpaper is peeling in the hallway of the mind Where the empathetic impulses are increasingly hard to find Oh, the arrhythmia of the masses, the bypass of the truth We’ve traded in the passion for a systematic proof Just a metronome of the mundane, marking out the cost Of every tiny fragment of the mercy that we lost
Vocalisation: Ooh-wa-ooh, distorted and pained Tear the zinc from the ceiling Grease the gears of the feeling It’s a cold, metallic clicking where the kindness used to sit In the ledger of the living, you’re just another deficit Are you still alive inside? Or did the empathy just slide? The bleeding tickers line the street, looking for a hand But the bypass was successful and we’ve cleared the vacant land A copper-plated lubricant for the grinding of the day While the biological components slowly rot away Keep the pressure in the copper, keep the fluid in the line Everything is functional, everything is fine Oh, the arrhythmia of the masses, the bypass of the truth We’ve traded in the passion for a systematic proof Just a metronome of the mundane, marking out the cost Of every tiny fragment of the mercy that we lost
Vocalisation: Woah-oh-oh, fading into a hum Just a pump. Just a gear. Is there anybody home? 
