My computer thinks I'm gay.
I threw that piece of junk away,
on the Champs-Élysées
as I was walking home.

This is my last communiqué
down the super highway.
All that I have left to say
in a single tome.

I got too many friends, too many people
that I'll never meet, and I'll never be there for.
I'll never be there for, cause I'll never be there.

If I could give it all away,
would it come back to me someday?
Like a needle in the hay,
or an expensive stone.

But I've got a reason to declaim,
the applications are to blame
for all my sorrow and my pain,
of feeling so alone.

I got too many friends, too many people
that I'll never meet, and I'll never be there for.
I'll never be there for, cause I'll never be there.

Too many friends, too many people
that I'll never meet, and I'll never be there for.
I'll never be there for, cause I'll never be there.

My computer thinks I'm gay.
What's the difference anyway?
When all the people do all day
is stare into a phone.

I got too many friends, too many people
that I'll never meet, and I'll never be there for.
I'll never be there for, cause I'll never be there.

Too many friends, too many people
that I'll never meet, and I'll never be there for.
I'll never be there for, cause I'll never be there.

I'll never be there. I'll never be there.
I'll never be there. I'll never be there.