Hugo Shiboski, EWI (Electronic Wind Instrument)
Lyrics by Marty the Martian
Welcome to the space ship
With your permission, let me transmit on this Nate shit
See, life’s a mirror, and I wonder -- will you face it?
It gets clearer, just depends the way you place it, which
way you got it facing
See since you were born, they told you to reflect on yourself
Take your conscience and percept on yourself
Are you self-conscious? Good, so is everyone else
The poor me mentality plays right to the wealth
Now these “I’m Self-Important” types have sorted all the normal guys,
Imported more of poorer types -- they’re running the shelf
They’re snorting up assembly lines and shortening the belt
They want to help US, but the S is a dollar sign
It’s all about you and the money they can make from you
Well, uh -- take from you…
I’m on break at a home depot thinking ‘bout a house I’m gonna break into
Look what they made us do…
Are you a type A person?
Or a “might say” person?
A right-way person, the right-shade person,
the hides face, hides hate, just might stay hurting?
All the world’s a stage with a thick shay curtain
And we’re stuck here to interpret just a big vague blur, but
All we hear are words, but we don’t see the faces
They don’t see the worry -- here we are faced with
Generation Y? Well that’s the question
And X don’t got the answer so we’d better get to guessing
Are we Generation Try? Next in succession?
Just because the sets are switching doesn’t mean progression…
I mean, Generation Die? Who’s gonna push the button?
By the time we’re president, they’ll probably push a dozen
We’re tired of pushing daisies the doctors prescribe us daily
Not only are we restless -- you guessed it -- we’re fucking crazy!
The world can’t revolve without revolutions
The youth can’t evolve without retribution
We stayed committed to this constitution, but
The Forefathers are before us -- they don’t have the solutions
Stop placing faith in the past to solve the future
Everyone’s gassed, we’re riding on a scooter
3-2-1 blast off -- blast it, we can’t breathe through this plastic
See, our last hope is wearing a backpack full of matches
He’s a nervous act in a class full of actors
He burns them with passions
And our actions will happen and fall into ashes --
And from that a phoenix will rise
Let’s follow its flight, its light
And explore a frontier from a former demise
It won’t be bricks to build a new nation
It’s a creation predicated on exploration.
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