Yeah—on leaving school immersed in philanthropic notions
Of a kind these days I find unthinkable
I pulled my frail frame onto my charger
And rode off into a sunset with agenda predictable

Fresh faced, young-dumb-and tragically convinced
That blind faith could make an infantile normative playground theory on social interaction positive enough to show them all but alas—

Working the tills put hair on my chest, telesales made me a man

And everything was going to be ok, but the making of the man
Was the breaking of the back upon the rock of everyday hostility

Fresh faced, young-dumb-and tragically convinced
That blind faith could make an infantile normative playground theory
On social interaction positive

And I don't mean to seem, at all ungrateful
But the air-conditioned life has left me gasping for some real conversation
And just because Turing couldn't possibly conceive
A machine with this little personality
I'm working shifts in veal-fattening pens
And yet I'm puppy thin because to tell the truth
I was been hanging on for something more than distant
Dialtones and a sense of ending, yeah
The breaking of the back was the making of the man