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What I got, you need in. |
|
This is the future, son. |
|
Stake your claim, it's almost gone. |
|
It's gonna be beautiful, gonna reach the sky and more. |
|
There's gold in them there walls. |
|
We're tearing down all the neighborhoods, |
|
making room for designer skylines, |
|
so the lives in the underpass can be left in the dust by a whole new crowd. |
|
Units still available, primed for success. |
|
Your life in 500 square feet or less. |
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And it's self-contained. And it's all the same. |
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And only steps away from a city that you'll never see, |
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And every ugly abomination that the billboard never mentioned |
|
but whose problem, whose life, whose city is that? |
|
Show me a man with that much faith in concrete |
|
and I'll show you every self-starter that ever put torch to building. |
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Every towering inferno lying in wait. |
|
Show me your city plans, |
|
I'll show you angry hands |
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Selling the urban dream one locked door at a time. |
|
And this is what Air Conditioned Nightmares are made of, |
|
The architecture of isolation. |
|
What I got, you need in. |
|
This is the future, son. |
|
Stake your claim, it's almost gone. |
|
It's gonna be beautiful, gonna reach the sky and more. |
|
There's gold in them there walls. |
|
Compartmentalized. |
|
Headlong into the hive. |
|
City plans that eat you alive. |
