The National Grid

The city's an organism

It's our bodies - they're multiplying

The interior swallows us in

To be siphoned and spat out again

The highways and streets are diseased

Our parks are the antibodies

Disregarding the gardens we breathe

Leaves us steadily suffocating

Gone, gone, gone, gone

Gone, gone, gone, gone

Gone, gone, gone, gone

Gone, gone, gone, gone

Gone, gone, gone, gone

It's a scramble to reach the zenith

Those who make it are pushed off of it

Then the nothing that nothingness brings

Can be equally captivating

Don't let it hurt you

Pick up, pick up the last

Vestiges of your

Originality

Don't let it hurt you

Pick up, pick up the last

Vestiges of your

Originality