Underneath our streets are more streets
I saw you flying
They think i'm built of numbers
They think you're built of numbers
One hundred years down and time's
Made dust of bones
You could say that you will be ready
With a feeding tube strung through
Your gas mask
All your words used to have meaning
But they lost their cores
Float unmoored
Should you get bored
Turn to the screen with a steady pour
Poor poor masses
Little more slumber
Little folding of the hands to rest
Fold your hands to rest
I saw you flying in an automobile
In a dream on a road in the sky