The horizon has been deafeated

By the pirates of the new age

Alien casinos

Maybe its just time to say

Things can go bad

And little kids will run away

But as they grow older

The troubles just seems to stay



There is a phos-florescent secret

In the strings between the cans

No prints can come from fingers when

Machines become our hands

And our feet become the wheels

And then wheels become the cars

And then the rigs begin to drill

Until the drillings gone to far



Things can go bad

They make you wanna run away

But as we grow older the faultline

Begins to fade...fade...fade