Lyrics:

Starched white shirts, so neatly pressed by domestic musesFeed dilusions that everything is working out right,But your ribs can't withstand increasing weightAs your heart gets heavier and sooner or later,It falls to the tips of your toes.And every day tastes like inhalingWhen you just lit the wrong end (that plastic burning scent).Your only friends are on the exit ramps of gridlock caravans.You try to ask how they've been,But the metal and glass is too thick.