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There are strings strung from a hand |
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They extend to every point across this land |
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And the ants keep moving fast |
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They just blink and nod while miracles slip past |
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There's a face, unearthly clean |
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That stares up at me from every magazine |
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Computer screens and concrete lines |
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I think I might let my subscription slide |
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There's this song stuck in my brain |
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With the unrelenting pulse of the inane |
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And the words go tra-la-la |
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Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-da-da |
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There's a tick and there's a tock |
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They pursue like Hare Krishnas while I walk |
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Storefront signs broadcast the time |
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I think I might let my subscription slide |
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There are words hung in the sky |
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That the crazy children hum while they walk by |
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Human souls on sale for dimes |
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In a game of chutes and ladders run by mimes |
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There's this voice, it won't shut up |
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Says I should spill my juice and overflow the cup |
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You've got rules and I've got mine |
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I think I might let my subscription slide |
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There are rules and we all subscribe |
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I think I'm gonna let my subscription slide |
