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Same old boring Sunday morning
Old man's out washing the car
Mum's in the kitchen, cooking Sunday dinner
Her best meal moaning while it lasts
Johnny's upstairs in his bedroom
Sitting in the dark
Annoying the neighbors
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 broad-moor 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 practice 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 center 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
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