We're tired of reaching for the tempered dream,
of stretching days and getting squeezed by years,
and bored with the swaggers, the pushes and shoves
of people in rushes to get somewhere,
like hogs in a slaughterhouse hoping to eat,
or children in the rye without a catcher.

We're dying to live in the material world;
we're blinded by the pixels as they stream.
We'd sooner starve alone in the lively air
than follow billions to a phony dream,
like hogs in a slaughterhouse hoping to eat,
or children in the rye without a catcher.

Why chase the wind? We can turn and face it.
Why measure time by the mirror in our room?
We can follow earth, sun, stars and moon.