| Stuck in the weeds with your concrete boots
|
| Blowing bubbles with the carp ‘caus they’re just like you
|
| Introduced, overused and persuaded by price
|
| Hid behind stacks of paper like a democratic landslide
|
| Unabashed unashamed safe on the island
|
| Terra Madre; |
| silent asylum
|
| You still complain that you’ll rent 'til you die
|
| And you get so sad and you get so high &
|
| You won’t change, but you keep on trying
|
| The microwave overcook. |
| Turn to mush. |
| Fill it up
|
| Wash your hands. |
| Parabens kill your pets. |
| Take a look at yourself
|
| You were young, might grow old, have a son
|
| Then it starts, tattooed names, dedicating 5 days
|
| Cycles that were born in the Industrial Age
|
| Now you’re running late ‘cause they’re not running the trains
|
| Some poor soul jumped she had her eyes on God
|
| She had coffee to wake up then booze to drift off
|
| Am I lucky? |
| Am I sad? |
| I have problems? |
| Are they bad?
|
| I get sick, bulk billed, I get empty, get filled
|
| But no I don’t do nothing, I’m a cog, I’m a button
|
| Little corporate springboard with a western landlord
|
| You get so sad and you get so high &
|
| You won’t change, but you keep on trying
|
| So when I cross my heart & hope to die
|
| You can tell me all the reasons why
|
| Why I lock my eyes & stand up straight
|
| And fight just like a heavyweight
|
| So when your coffin calls, the years fly by
|
| You clutch the things that kept you waiting
|
| I’m hitchin' a ride with the aliens
|
| Just tell me we’re going home
|
| You get so sad and you get so high &
|
| You won’t change, but you keep on trying |