Things down past Flagstaff got nasty, no doubt,
more heat coming in than was getting back out.
It was maybe the 20th year of the drought;
valley fever came in, pretty much won that bout.
Gas prices went north, cooling systems went south;
things go **** up, you get down in the mouth.
Finally, unable to take any more
they pointed it north, ended up at our door.
We're already full; not a thing we could do;
fed them a meal, took a woman or two,
told lies about work up in Kalamazoo.

I live in the Yukon with all of my mates.
My grand folks moved north from the You Fried It States
It could be worse.  Got food?  You'll do fine,
but it gets kind of warm past the north B.C. line.
Some get the bug for Tierra del Fuego.
They pack their bags, wait for fall, and then say go.
But, far as I know, the most capable band
lost their resolve after 2 months of sand.
It could well be a several century wait
'til we paddle across the Darien Strait
and finally discover the southerners’ fate.
We probably need equatorial seas
to simmer back down to ninety degrees.

Fred and I at the top of the Empire State
had a sudden notion we both rate as great.
Grab the moment, commit to the leap,
take the obvious shortcut, save wear on the feet.
We looked at that gravity field immense,
glanced at each other, ducked under the fence.
Now Fred's a great scientist, one of the bestest,
and he's shown he works under heat like asbestos.
We're both sure he'll find a good way to arrest us.
For now it's great soaring, not feeling Earth's tug
looking in windows and watching eyes bug.
It's the greatest of fun. I can't wait for more.
I just got a wink from the forty-third floor.
I turn my neck and look over at Fred,
he must have it now, he's scratching his head.

Mention eugenics, you'll empty the room;
People assume you're the prophet of doom.
This time, before it's a total rout,
wait a second, hear me out.
Here is where, if you listen to me
in a few generations, humans could be.
Sad brown eyes, golden hair,
happy sleeping anywhere.
Great disposition.  Wonderfully nice.
Great white teeth, a breeze to de-lice.
We'd all love nature, swimming like beavers
once we've evolved into Golden Retrievers.

It starts the day a man's conceived:
Some cells die off and get relieved;
the molecules of which they're made
will interact and be remade;
electron flow is interlaced
and atoms find themselves replaced;
regardless how your plans are laid
your thoughts evolve, your memories fade;
the only thing that's there to stay
is coded in your DNA,
so in the deepest sense it's true:
You are your twin; your twin is you.

No one knew better; it seemed pretty swell,
cruising around in the suds with one cell.
Then someone discovered your chances accrue
if you can transition from one cell to two
and so we evolved the next three billion years,
grew livers and baby fat, dimples and ears,
and made up some gods who we worshiped a lot,
so they thought us special and gave us top spot.
Now the plants are all named and the system is gamed
and the animals tamed and the communists blamed
and the resources claimed and our passions inflamed.
In a myriad ways we're as rich as king Tut
and it's all quite fantastically wonderful. But ...

Your job, of course, is find the means
that works the best to spread your genes
and women choose two different ways:
the man who's great or one who stays
and through the kindness of the state
she's free to choose the man who's great
and thus society is built
on those who look a lot like Wilt.