The horizon has been deafeated
By the pirates of the new age
Alien casinos
Maybe its just time to say

Things can go bad
And little kids will run away
But as they grow older
The troubles just seems to stay

There is a phos-florescent secret
In the strings between the cans
No prints can come from fingers when
Machines become our hands
And our feet become the wheels
And then wheels become the cars
And then the rigs begin to drill
Until the drillings gone to far

Things can go bad
They make you wanna run away
But as we grow older the faultline
Begins to fade...fade...fade