KyPoetry - Lyrics

Let me lay on the word from the bird

here in Anstville.

I've heard the call of the mushroom people

falling from grace;

my fellow subterranean brothers and sisters,

all the cool cats and hip chicks

in this fair,

Fat City

we inhabit.

You Ivy Leaguers

got it made in the shade;

time fades the rest of us,

but you with your facade of paper shakers,

caught up in the race for the long green,

you know your place in this gig.

Yeah, you pass judgement on us,

the children of the mammas and the papas

lost by the side of the information highway.

The cost of forgetting us in this radioactive scene:

trying to keep clean of the hipsters

lying in the shit filled fields of yesterday's hopes,

ready to choke

on the meagre nuggets

you

let

drop.

This is the playground you left for us,

no way we're bound to your moral structure -

the dried floral you kept from your headbands,

safe in your scrapbook that shows the road

the code that took you from orbit to Nowheresville.

You ask 'why the pain?'

as you slip your own prescription

for the nirvana of our minds into our coffee.

Yeah, for just a little fee we can drop dead twice

and be like you.

We're way gone, baby;

breaking our fast with Ritalin chasers

forget the past, it's got nothin' to do with us

as you teach us we're shot down before we even take off

on our solo flight through life.

We are the trash bound trailer generation

metal music

and metal high chairs

for the ankle biters pitching animal cookies at the camera

as we spout off our philosophies

on the disease that creeps upon us with the waking sun.

We expect nothing from you squares

only the flare from the explosion,

the implosion of the ticking bomb

signifying our struggle is at an end.

Lying in wait,

clutched and frosted.