| Standing right outside the echo |
| When we were still just cutting teeth |
| Turning madness into waveforms |
| Searching cords for what’s beneath |
| All these existential freshmen |
| Trying to keep our noses clean |
| Scared to show our faith in |
| The ghost in the machine |
| Standing right outside the echo |
| We were working for the door |
| Assuming our dreams were brighter |
| Than the bands that played before |
| But you can see it in their hunger |
| You can hear it in their screams |
| Back to trying to make contacts |
| With the ghost in the machine |
| To the build ups and the breakdowns |
| To the boom and to the crash |
| To the stockpiles of excuses |
| Or how to trade it in for cash |
| All the boys in these motel rooms |
| The call at six fifteen |
| One million miles upon a highway |
| For a ghost in the machine |
| All the thousand hesitations |
| L built up in my early years |
| On the reconsiderations |
| Though the music of the spheres |
| Which I can not deny any longer |
| When every night I reconvene |
| It needs vibrations getting grouped up |
| The ghost in the machine |
| Ghost in the machine |
| Ghost in the machine |
| Ghost in the machine |