And I'm here in this little glass house,
On display for the robots next-door --
The last of human life
Trapped in a box with translucent locks
In this paradisiacal paradox.
The suburbs are where dreams go to die.
Look at that cool-guy dad of three
With a car from 1970
Who doesn't get a wink of sleep,
And for dinner he eats batteries.
He wasn't supposed to be like this,
Spending more time with his therapist
Than with his mechanizing kids.
Love is sending them as far away as possible
Before they're condemned to your same tragic fate.
Their precious internal organs are slowly being swapped and traded with engine parts,
So that their chests hum rather than beat --
And wheels are used more often than feet.
Extension cords for intestines
And oil for blood,
Plug them in to sleep at night
So that they may be fully charged and operational tomorrow.
They are constantly being programmed in the greatest form of mass production known to man.
(Well, what's left of him.)
Cookie cutter children with magnetic hands,
Always grabbing and attracting new parts to attach to themselves.
Chewing microchips like bubblegum,
Transferring data as a form of fun.
It's "cool-guy dad 2.0."
He's outdated now,
Useless apart from nurturing the new generation that will ultimately cause his demise.
Oh, what a time to be alive.
To be a human on display in an industrial neighborhood.
(And don't even get me started on the soccer moms.)
The suburbs get to me sometimes (a.k.a. all the time).
