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In a forest of stone |
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Underneath the corporate canopy |
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Where the sun rarely filters down |
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The ground is not so soft |
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Not so soft |
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They build buildings to house people |
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Making money |
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Or they build buildings to make money |
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Off of housing people |
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It's true |
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Like a lot of things are true |
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I am foraging for a phone booth on the forest floor |
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That is not so soft |
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I look up |
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It looks like the buildings are burning |
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But it's just the sun setting |
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The solar system calling an end to another business day |
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Eternally circling signally |
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The rythmic clicking on and off of computers |
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The pulse of the American machine |
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The pulse that draws death dancing |
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Out of anonymous side streets |
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You know |
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The ones that always get dumped on and never get plowed |
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It draws death dancing |
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Out of little countries |
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With funny languages |
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Where the ground is getting harder |
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And it was not that soft before |
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Those who call the shots are never in the line of fire |
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Why |
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Where there's life for hire out there |
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If a flag of truth were raised |
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We could watch every liar rise to wave it |
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Here we learn America like a script |
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Playwright |
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Birthright |
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Same thing |
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We bring ourselves to the role |
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We're all rehearsing for the presidency |
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I always wanted to be commander in chief of my one woman army |
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But I can envision the mediocrity of my finest hour |
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It's the failed America in me |
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It's the fear that lives in a forest of stone |
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Underneath the corporate canopy |
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Where the sun rarely filters down |
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And the ground is not so soft |
