The American Scene is behind All the future seers and their Lost Sons and daughters We ride over the dead cities Over elephant bones Over the grass covered sea And I see the writing on the walls It tells me of laws Nobody obeys any longer They want to be free from definition They want to be defined They want to see They want to be blind Felt like a matchstick Waiting to plunder Burn all the plastic They put us under Felt like a matchstick Waiting for thunder Burn all their plastic eyes This war This war This war He said Raising his eyes And ringing his hands This war This war Nobody comes here anymore I am all alone Phaestos is dead She is forgotten And then he took a little flower And put it in my hand Why me Felt like a matchstick Waiting to plunder Burn all the plastic They put us under Felt like a matchstick Waiting for thunder Burn all their plastic eyes