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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 neighbours with his punk rock electric guitar

This is the sound
This is the sound of the suburbs
This is the sound of the suburbs

Every lousy Monday morning
Heathrow jets go crashing over our home
Ten o’clock Broadmoor siren
Driving me mad, won’t leave me alone
The woman next door 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 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
Practise in the singer’s bedroom
Drum’s 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 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 of the suburbs
This is the sound of the suburbs

This is the sound
This is the sound
This is the sound
This is the sound
This is the sound
This is the sound
This is the sound
This is the sound

This is the sound of the suburbs
This is the sound of the suburbs
This is the sound of the suburbs
This is the sound of the suburbs

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