Fits of Disillusional Blurs Lyrics

With a gun barrel between your teeth
You speak only in vowels
I can't think of anything
For this theatre of mass destruction
I couldn't sleep with insomnia, nothing's real
Everything's a copy of a copy
You accept your fate
The hysterical shouting it was in tongues
Like at pentecostal church
Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes
Working jobs we hate so we can buy shit
Our great war is a spiritual war
You're not how much money you have
You're not the car you drive
You're not your fucking job
You're not the contents of your wallet