There are stings strung from a hand, They extend to every point across this land. And the ants keep moving fast, They just blink and nod while miracles slip past. There's a face, unearthly clean, That stares up at me from every magazine. Computer screens and concrete lines, I think I might let my subscription slide. There's this song stuck in my brain, With the unrelenting pulse of the inane. And the words go tra-la-la, Tra-la-la-la tra-la-la-la la-da-da. There's a tick, and there's a tock. They pursue like Hare Krishnas while I walk. Storefront signs broadcast the time, I think I might let my subscription slide. There are words hung in the sky, That the crazy children hum while they walk by. Human souls on sale for dimes, In a game of chutes and ladders run by mimes. There's this voice, it won't shut up. Says I should spill my juice and overflow the cup. You've got rules, and I've got mine. I think I might let my subscription slide. There are rules, and we all subscribe. I think I'm gonna let my subscription slide.