You're just walking round your little mazes figuring out how to get by,
How to get laid and get famous, get yourself paid, impress the guys.
You're taught to divide the world into buddies and wives, sluts and wimps;
And ever since, you've kept a scorecard - how else to prove you're such the pimp.
You are just a robot, executing a program.
You get on the train where the crowd is tightening to push yourself up against a girl,
And when you're not getting play, you keep trying, you don't understand the consentual way.
You are just a robot, an imitation of a man.
She told me one night when we were lying quiet and cold, something not right.
It had been months since the good times, once there was sun, now there was night.
And she said to me as she turned on the light,
"There's something you don't know keeps me from feeling right.
I once knew a guy, i'd seen him around.
He knew all my friends, he came from town.
One night at a party, we both were there,
He followed me into the bathroom, he grabbed my hair,"
And she said "i still remember just how the floor felt and how my head would hit the tub."
Now where is that robot, is he alive or is he done?
Does he breathe the air that I breathe?
Is he kept warm by the same sun?