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In a forest of stoneunderneath the corporate canopywhere the sunrarelyfiltersdownthe groundis not so softnot so softthey build buildings to house peoplemaking moneyor they build buildings to make moneyoff of housing peopleit's truelike a lot of things are true
I am foraging for a phone booth on the forest floorthat is not so soft
I look upit looks like the buildings are burningbut it's just the sun settingthe solar system calling an endto another business dayeternally circling signallythe rythmic clicking on and offof computersthe pulseof the american machinethe pulsethat draws death dancingout of anonymous side streetsyou knowthe ones that always get dumped onand never get plowedit draws death dancingout of little countrieswith funny languageswhere the ground is getting harderand it wasnotthatsoftbeforethose who call the shotsare never in the line of firewhywhere there's life for hireout thereif a flag of truth were raisedwe could watch every liarrise to wave itherewe learn america like a scriptplaywrightbirthrightsame thingwe bringourselves to the rolewe're all rehearsing for the presidency
I always wanted to becommander in chiefof my one woman armybut I can envision the mediocrityof my finest hourit's the failed america in meit's the fear that livesin a forest of stoneunderneath the corporate canopywhere the sunrarelyfiltersdownand the groundis not so soft
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