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In a forest of stone

underneath the corporate canopy

where the sun

rarely

filters

down

the ground

is not so soft

not so soft

they build buildings to house people

making money

or they build buildings to make money

off of housing people

it`s true

like a lot of things are true

I am foraging for a phone booth on the forest floor

that is not so soft

I look up

it looks like the buildings are burning

but it`s just the sun setting

the solar system calling an end

to another business day

eternally circling signally

the rythmic clicking on and off

of computers

the pulse

of the american machine

the pulse

that draws death dancing

out of anonymous side streets

you know

the ones that always get dumped on

and never get plowed

it draws death dancing

out of little countries

with funny languages

where the ground is getting harder

and it was

not

that

soft

before

those who call the shots

are never in the line of fire

why

where there`s life for hire

out there

if a flag of truth were raised

we could watch every liar

rise to wave it

here

we learn america like a script

playwright

birthright

same thing

we bring

ourselves to the role

we`re all rehearsing for the presidency

I always wanted to be

commander in chief

of my one woman army

but I can envision the mediocrity

of my finest hour

it`s the failed america in me

it`s the fear that lives

in a forest of stone

underneath the corporate canopy

where the sun

rarely

filters

down

and the ground

is not so soft

In a forest of stone

underneath the corporate canopy

where the sun

rarely

filters

down

the ground

is not so soft

not so soft

they build buildings to house people

making money

or they build buildings to make money

off of housing people

it`s true

like a lot of things are true

I am foraging for a phone booth on the forest floor

that is not so soft

I look up

it looks like the buildings are burning

but it`s just the sun setting

the solar system calling an end

to another business day

eternally circling signally

the rythmic clicking on and off

of computers

the pulse

of the american machine

the pulse

that draws death dancing

out of anonymous side streets

you know

the ones that always get dumped on

and never get plowed

it draws death dancing

out of little countries

with funny languages

where the ground is getting harder

and it was

not

that

soft

before

those who call the shots

are never in the line of fire

why

where there`s life for hire

out there

if a flag of truth were raised

we could watch every liar

rise to wave it

here

we learn america like a script

playwright

birthright

same thing

we bring

ourselves to the role

we`re all rehearsing for the presidency

I always wanted to be

commander in chief

of my one woman army

but I can envision the mediocrity

of my finest hour

it`s the failed america in me

it`s the fear that lives

in a forest of stone

underneath the corporate canopy

where the sun

rarely

filters

down

and the ground

is not so soft

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