Same old boring Sunday morning old mans out washing the car,
Mums in the kitchen cooking Sunday dinner her best meal moaning while it lasts,
Johnnys upstairs in his bedroom sitting in the dark,
Annoying the neighbours with his punk rock electric guitar,
This is the Sound,
This is the Sound of the Suburbs
This is the Sound,
This is the Sound of the Suburbs
Every Lousy Monday Morning Heathrow jets goes crashing over my home,
Ten O’clock Broadmoor siren driving me mad won’t leave me alone,
The woman next store just sits and stares outside,
She hasn’t come out once ever since her husband died,
This is the Sound,
This is the Sound of the Suburbs
This is the Sound,
This is the Sound of the Suburbs
Youth club Group used to want to be free,
Now they want anarchy,
They play too fast, they play out of tune,
They Practise in the singers bedroom,
The Drums quite good the bass is too loud,
And I… can’t hear the words.
This is the Sound,
This is the Sound of the Suburbs
This is the Sound,
This is the Sound of the Suburbs
Saturday morning family shoppers crowding out, the centre of town,
Young blokes sitting on the benches shouting at the young girls walking around,
Johnny stands there at his window looking at the night,
I said, hey what you listening to there’s nothing there (that’s right)
This is the Sound,
This is the Sound of the Suburbs
This is the Sound,
This is the Sound of the Suburbs
