Mouse claws on plastic; a scratching sound, A small pallid face on a merry-go-round, The wheel trundles on unstable ground As the empire falls, a fresh king is crowned
Head spinning; hair thinning, Revolution by minute is no beginning, And now the man behind the lattice is sinning, It goes around, and around Swinging, we come around
Mornings follow familiar dreams Afternoons clink with routine and caffeine Evening curtains rise to the same static scenes, And night rings out the strain of the machine Round and around Evergreen; never aground
Our scratches on the wheel grow loud now Two more eyes swallowed by the shuffling crowd now Despite strain, the steel walls unbowed somehow By a thousand pallid faces beneath a thousand sallow shrouds We go around, and we go around The mice remain humble: the king has some proud vow It comes around and back around The world keeps turning; we all fall down