Less of a singer, you are more of a prostitute.
With aspirations for a life of sex and drug abuse.
When did the music turn into a beauty pageant?
Lately my sense of pride as been chronically absent.

(Chorus)
Domesticate.
So much for combat.
My worst habits are mounting a comeback,
Dollars and pence, cubic or metric,
You can sit down, but the chairs are electric,
Lay in the street, embrace the gutter,
Easier than working for something better,
Pull on my boots, run through the back door,
Should have been more careful what I wished for.

Less of an artist, you are more, more of a xerox machine,
You sit tracing the pages juxtapose magazine,
When did the music turn into a beauty pageant?
I've become a participant in something I once stood against

(Chorus)

I should have never given birth to this monster (x2)
From all this shame I'd like to hide my head in the ground.