Dedicated to the occupy movement and every hipster around the world. |
There's a place in the center of town Where all the zombies gather To gnaw on old, dry chicken And whisper amongst themselves About the acquisition of brain matter And perform bonding rituals Of ancient sailors In ancient manifold ships Of the exchange of paper For jeans that squeeze their hips Where the women are tall, white, and plaster Where the men walk in cloth shoes across floors of alabaster I've been to that place and met those people The stinking, rotting flesh Gathered under a glass steeple And there's a place within that place Where the people are taught to be poor And the teachers shout lessons About forgotten lore Of screeching, screaming politicians Living in linoleum houses And every morning when he shoots up He spits his euphoric cemented teeth Into a little cup And screams outside of loose women and cheap booze And looks quickly around his house for things he's afraid to lose I've met that man and been to that plastic castle He's old And his shirt is covered in gold And he walks with a limp with a cane in his hand And uses his eight legs just to stand And repeats the world's longest sentence Over and over in his head And his castle hanging high in the sky The last fortress where he wills urely die It smells And it rocks when a bird lands on the turret And when the sun shines through the tinted walls The furniture turns to dust And cockroaches crawl up the walls And the zombies scream out truths of ancient philosophers And shut their ears and speak in history lessons Taught in the center of the building Where their consciousness was implanted Where their minds were slanted And together they all chanted Havin' an affair with an old Biltmore She's old She's covered in mold And her words come out so bold When she holds out a hand And asks for their parents' pieces of gold Standin' on the sidewalks Smoking dandilions in leather pipes Holding up their red-and-white signs Make believin' they're all the ninety-nine |