"Success" is such a shallow word

Where plenty talk, but few are heard.

Where dreams are dropped and thoughts controlled.

Where lives are simply bought and sold.

 

Ambitions lead, while ethics fall,

As men once proud are forced to crawl

And follow patterns set in stone

That leave them living all alone.

 

 Chorus:

Art nouveau and escargot

With dollar signs between the lines

Where nothing's real to make you feel

These hollow shells of living hells

These doctor's wives devoid of lives

In subtle stealth, they flaunt their wealth

To countless peers, who share their fears

And every dream is just a scheme

To reach "success" when they impress

The chosen few, who no one knew

So many years ago

 

And this "success" is often one

Where cynics hide and cowards run,

They fear the fact they don't quite fit,

So they surrender and submit.

 

Submit to patterns so absurd,

While no one dares to breathe a word

Is this "success"? I hesitate,

'Cause if it's not, it's not too late.

 

Chorus