| Seven million years of progress handed down on silver wings
|
| Of gossamer and protein still we haven’t learned a thing
|
| Are we caught up in our anger, locked up in our rage
|
| In the opera of selection on this our earthly stage
|
| And Charlie’s spinning laughing, laughing in his grave
|
| Laughing at the prophecy, the prophecy he gave
|
| Can we spread our wings like angels, can we break out of the grind
|
| Are we destined to be Darwin’s children this time
|
| The ribbons of our cigarettes vanish in the air
|
| In the glow of our great teacher we sit and blankly stare
|
| And the sky could open up and what would we have to say
|
| Something cute about burning out, better than fading away
|
| And Charlie’s spinning laughing, laughing in his grave
|
| Laughing at the prophecy, the prophecy he gave
|
| Can we spread our wings like angels, can we break out of the grind
|
| Are we destined to be Darwin’s children this time
|
| On the wings of invention now we hurdle toward our fate
|
| As sure as the sunset burns
|
| Collective resignation, evolutionary fate
|
| When will we ever learn
|
| And Charlie’s spinning laughing, laughing in his grave
|
| Laughing at the prophecy, the prophecy he gave
|
| Can we spread our wings like angels, can we break out of the grind
|
| Are we destined to be Darwin’s children this time |