Take your red bikinis and your lamborghinis Take your tans and your men with the spray in their hair Take your tasteless beers and your replenished beach And your tacky houses that you built on the sea That'll just wash away in the next hurricane But it don't matter none; you just build 'em up again And they'll be bigger and faster and stronger than before 'Til they pick up their skirts and they walk down the street Sayin', "Fuck all y'all! We're movin' to the country." So they plop down and call themselves luxury suites A name that a man invented in his sleep Now the driveways are filled with lamborghinis And the backyards are filled with red bikinis And that poor, little piece of fertile country Could've been growin' some food for a factory to reap To process and package for a family to eat Who look with envy at that house on the street What they don't know is those people've got nothin' that lasts 'Cause they don't even really know their own kids Who get good grades in school and fill their days all with things And who don't realize that they can't even think For themselves and don't even know how to ask why 'Cause they're told what to think And what they're told is a good-for-nothin', Dirty-rotten-scoundrel of a lie