the theme song from The Young & The Restless
permeating the womb.
Years upon years upon years of encoded electronic images.
Face the screen, look forward to the dream, plan your life
around the scene. Joystick, controller, touch tone, cell phone.
It’s new! It’s improved! This one’s smaller. This one’s wiser.
Keep your head buried in the wires. Addicted to the diction.
Too strange to be fiction.
Playtime for hours. Pavlovian towers. Devolution of a species.
Crap trap the whole thing's tapped. This is what we've been working towards.
Don’t call. Don’t talk. Text me. I don’t want to see your face or hear your voice.
Just send me the codes already. I don’t care.
These lies are becoming threadbare.
Reveal the zeal with which our souls are being stealed. (sic)
I don’t know but I’ve been told. Once there was a way,
but everything must be bought and sold.
A soul cries out in the wilderness, manna in the form of prana.
Or is it prana in the form of manna?
Must be electrix, must be Celebrex, must be freezone, ozone,
motorhome, no place to call your own.
Run that treadmill as fast as you can.
All hail the Toucan Sam. Slam bam, thank you Ma’am.
Great balls of fire, send me your ire.
Burn some tires, the flames licking higher.
The black smoke disappears into the atmosphere.
We’re here. We’re queer.
We’re funny little creatures, scurrying ants
in and out of the plants. Bubble canopies of rubber and steel,
aluminum, windshield glass, we got no class.
Burn that gas, tap that ass, work that dick.
What's making us tick? If everything is okay...
Well, then I guess I’m the one who’s sick.
But this shit’s got to change. Are you ready to name names?
CIA hurricane? Get ready. You know who’s to blame:
We are the game. We own the shame. We flew those planes.
Nothing will ever be the same.
