The Cul-de-sac jungle is a cruel place.
It's a living rotting failure from a different age.
And if you're looking for the place that dreams go to die,
it's not in the city it's around the outside.
You can mortgage your future for subleached purity and accept the sterility in exchange for security,
but no matter how many times you run from your fears the same problems always re-appear.
Day after day it's all just decay,
and the promised land just gets further away.
On these dead lawns lie your father's dreams.
White flight. White blight. White screams.
On these dead lawns lie your mother's dreams.
