Future, be free

Little daughter of the stars

Shenandoah

The death of me, the death of you

And everybody who

Preaches down on the infants

Preaching down on the infants

Screens and clones, they seek our own

They’ve captured all of whom

Is willing to be seized

We used to call for Santa

Now all we wish for is some Tampa

Sun mirrors off the water, let’s get a boat

We could ride out, hide out, don’t let anybody know

But after all we’re dead to us, our souls are free to grow

Your view feels like Tampa

But I don’t want to be at home

No need to mow the grass

There’s rocks stuck in the ground

Not a need to dig them out

These rocks stuck in the ground

Ricochet the sound