Oscillations, oscillations Electronic evocations of sound's reality Spinning, magnetic fluctuations Waves of wave configurations That dance between the poles of sound And bind my world to soul I walk the streets of moment Head down to the ground Cars are stars remotely far My only world is sound Passersby are worlds that fly Far from the dance of time Time whirls round from pole to pole And swirls within the sound We are the robots We are the robots We are the robots We are the robots Space, taking a space walk Space, taking a space... Wanna be the ruler of the galaxy Wanna be the king of the universe Let's meet and have a baby now! Wanna be the captain of the Enterprise Wanna be the king of the Zulus Let's meet and have a baby now! O astronauta ao menos Viu que a Terra é toda azul, amor Isso é bom saber Porque é bom morar no azul, amor Mas você, sei lá Você é uma mulher, sim Você é linda porque é A secret question hovers over us, a sense of disappointment, a broken promise we were given as children. I am referring not to the standard false promises that children are always given (about how the world is fair, or how those who work hard shall be rewarded), but to a particular generational promise—given to those who were children in the fifties, sixties, seventies, or eighties—one that was never quite articulated as a promise but rather as a set of assumptions about what our adult world was supposed to be like. And since it was never quite promised, now that it has failed to come true, we're left confused: indignant, but at the same time, embarrassed at our own indignation, ashamed we were ever so silly to believe our elders to begin with. Where, in short, are the flying cars? Meet George Jetson His boy, Elroy Daughter Judy Jane, his wife Onde quer que você esteja Em Marte ou Eldorado Abra a janela e veja O pulsar quase mudo E o oco escuro esquece (Onde quer que você esteja Em Marte ou Eldorado Abra a janela e veja O pulsar quase mudo Abraço de anos-luz Que nenhum sol aquece E o oco escuro esquece)