We’ve got to
make money.
We’ve got to prove
to our families,
we’re not crazy,
not lazy,
not crazy.

Oh they’ve got it all wrong…

We’ve got to
see clearly.
We are unique
entities,
irrational actions
of a meaningless force,
what we accept for fear of loss.

Oh we’ve got it all wrong…

Forget about the music my son.
Forget about your own creations.
Forget about the beauty my son.
Live blindly,
numbly,
for money.

We’ve got to
discuss what’s true.
We’re asking,
“Who owns you?”
Market monster’s eyes
light up when there’s distress.
There’s profit in chaos.

Oh they’ve got it all wrong…
Tearing soldiers limb from limb,
money, more money for them!

One day, my son, you must
buy yourself a house
and have
lawn mowers and breakfast cups,
babies and boxes of crap,
lots of boxes of crap in your attic,
for no particular reason at all,
intimidation of a list of distractions,
to keep you going,
lots of props:
a mirage,
just a mirage,
a mirage,
just a gridded mirage.

Music by Erika Lloyd & Brad Whiteley
Lyrics by Erika Lloyd

Vocals: Erika Lloyd
Piano: Brad Whiteley
Drums: Kenneth Salters
Bass: Peter Maness

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