We need newer presidents on our dollars,
John Deere ain't on the plains in the fields.
The diners are closed, Waffle House imitations
burn the onions and salt the grits with Clorodox.
No-one remembers the Black Sox,
now the Whites can't win a raffle.
Tall Man Riding's sitting low in the saddle
on the flickered television
old western a black-and-white sign
of the times.
There's no Drive-in out by the treatment plants,
Roots Music is rap in the 'hoods and the 'Boros.
The blues are nazz, Whitey Yale imitations
blow harmonicas and bend the strings with Rotosound.
We can't shout down from the high ground
now the message is the music.
Long Tall Sally's peeling in the desert
on the long-nose of a B-52.
A cocktail once upon a time
in the west.
We grow landfill and create fake hillside views,
know your garbage, know your poor and plutocrats.
The truckers haul shit, crap-shoot imitations
full of poisons and half the price of quality.
No-one bothers with posterity
now the future is the present.
White Cloud Mushroom's glowing on the skyline
with the cactus and the droop-necked vulture.
Hey! Lookit the old time 50's
through the glass.