Social society deems me imperfect – just another product went defective

I try to ignore the pressure but the cover of the magazine holds me captive

Yet here we are in our Photoshop world with our newly made disguise

Dealing with a world that tells us to mutilate the body we’ve learned to despise

Success is counted by the calorie intake of the day

Still feel like a failure no matter how much you weigh

Carve it, chip it, we become a perfect example of a silicon fusion

Every day we become more plastic and less of a human

We won’t be satisfied until we’re left in a pile of wasted flesh

And so we play a dangerous game with the man known as Death