The people of straight-land
all live in a row.
Tiny little boxes,
and no-where to go.
You've got to get a job
to maintain the position.
A bright, happy dream
as prescribed by your physician.
The people of straight-land
have really got it made.
A warm friendly sleep
from the cradle to the grave.
A bright plastic lie of cash and credit.
A huge, gray fantasy you'll really want to edit.
The people of straight-land
are really not alive.
We walk and speak
but only just survive.
We move around
but under direction.
We cannot see
the larger perception.
There people of straight-land
make a silent scream.
Desperate to escape this death day-dream.
Rotting from the inside
it's really not polite.
You've got to shield your eyes
from such an everyday sight.
