I tried to call you, but you were gone,
Way too busy sticking the labels on,
Deciding who will swim in the talent pool and what is cool,
Cultivating more popularity,
Overly concerned with what not to be,
Trendy little fashions that please the eye, you'll televise.
Whatcha gonna do tomorrow?
Whatcha gonna do when it's over?
I just don't fit into the clique,
You're so hip you make me sick,
Whatcha gonna do tomorrow?
Tomorrow.
Pay no attention to quality,
Churning out the pap like a factory,
The only standard it how you feel, not what is real,
You never heard a word that I said,
Totally convinced that the sound was dead,
Creating categories that fit the times,
Conditioned minds.
Whatcha gonna do tomorrow?
Whatcha gonna do when it's over?
I just don't fit into the clique,
You're so hip you make me sick,
Whatcha gonna do tomorrow?
Tomorrow,
Tomorrow,
You move 'em in and move 'em out like they were cattle,
Burn a brand into their hide,
With all apologies to L.A. and Seattle,
Cloning is artistic suicide.
Whatcha gonna do tomorrow?
Whatcha gonna do when it's over?
I just don't fit into the clique,
You're so hip you make me sick,
Whatcha gonna do tomorrow?
Whatcha gonna do tomorrow?
Whatcha gonna do tomorrow?
Tomorrow,
Tomorrow.
