The bow arches back
the back arches, a bridge to allow passage
and wonderment through which to see the waters
that tumble and roll as thunder calls accros
and beeseeches you to turn of the camera, please
it's a private moment

but i remain and the nikon continues to watch
the motion, so intimate and intricate
and the lifts-- perfectly exceceuted!
the arrow flies

the flies are swatted away with balled up fists
that then, dutch, plug and stop the leaks
whereupon salty water leaves tracks on her cheeks
so newly healed from imperfections, and she was fixed
but on no-body's watch was she supposed to change

a magic wand that lands lightly on thoughts and preoccupations
proclaiming "heals! heals! heals!" in a neon, pornographic
selling our souls to big banks of ameriker
where we are divided by stretch marks on a magazine cover
and a titillating "fixes!" will entrance us all

if our arms were only a little longer we'd reach it
if we were thinner our arms would grow
if we were loved we would become thinner
if we were more beautiful we would be loved
if we were sexier, we would be more beautiful
and if we show our tits we'd be sexy enough,
if we had courage we'd show them everything
if we could reach it everything would heal,

if our arms were only a littler longer we'd reach it

but would we keep it?
there's a market for it, and everyone's buying
and even you and i must comply
to the effortless drumbeat that asks us to dance for the fuhrer
a masked man with youth elixer
in one hand, and a young boy in the other

saying "this is what you need"

buissness men will dance for him and ask their wives to please come to the seminar
and neither us of would believe it, but we've got it in us too
and i breaks my heart to see your guitar so tightly clutched in your balled up fist
held high to welcome stares, and you're snarling--
and your eyes are dying stars
needing to be pumped full of hydrogen,
lusting to explode

i played a drum beat on my corpse and my soul sang an aria, for him
and he would have believed it if only he'd seen
because i will pretend for as a long as i need to,
lusting to explode

we're a timebomb generation, pushed so deep that the next ones will be hippies,
follwing fifties rigiditty

and the liberal finger, so recently called communist, is pointing again in hollywood
the happy patriots will sing their battle cries and march onwards in blind slavery
drinking deeply their oil and singing "god bless arabia,
for giving us what we need"

and every step we're closer to breaking.
every step brings us closer to taking
advantage of the seed
and every step brings us closer to breathing
whatever it is that you and me breathe

i'll sell you my corpse and my soul and my aria
if you provide for me a little light
and uncle sam drinks another bock of whiskey
and tries so hard to feel alright
the media buys another girl-child
gives her away to the cold dark night
as the united states of insomnia wonders,
when was the last time it felt alright.