Mechanicals
Francisco Ponce
This wooden box-shaped heads on the street
Hearing the word of a plastic priest
Choking political puppets
Buying nauseous happiness, selling it out
Mindless bluffing herds
Heirs of monotone words
Idiotic working corpses
Who tear their breath away
Mechanicals, souls made of gears and wheels
Just running away when the got nothing to say
Mechanicals, souls made of gears and wheels
Just running away when the got nothing to say
Just run away, just go away
Just go if you've got nothing good to say
Just run away, just run away
Just go, you've got nothing good to say
Just go, just go, you've got nothing good to say
Just run away, just run 'cause you've got nothing good to say