They say we'll cross that bridge when we come to it..
But who needs a bridge when the waters runnin' dry,
from people bottling it up and selling it to the kids with glassy eyes.
The same kids who would write their dreams on paper boats,
to sail downstream,
But they're stuck sailing in circles in the puddles it seems.
So now they burn that bridge when they come to it,
and they're snorting up the ashes,
Because they think that's all they can do to preserve their dying passions.
So now they sell back their dreams cheap, unlike their habits,
and now we're just stuck with dreamless kids,
falling down holes chasing rabbits.