I can understand, I can understand why people talk with reverence
'bout the changing of the seasons, 'bout the bluing of the light that brings such melancholy.
I can understand, I can understand why poets do mythologise
'bout the browning of the land and the hardening on the back of your hand.
We were conceived in the back of a car,
Brought up in a bar, educated by TV,
I've got my PhD,
Dee dee dee dee, dee dee dee dee dee dee dee.
And now we crave all the comforts and accessories available,
and complain about our backs and how it is impossible to relax.
We walk the dog and sadly we consider how everything's been ruined,
and moan about the youth while our arbitrary opinions become absolute truth.
We were controlled by an invisible hand,
The fat of the land made us softer than the sea,
I shall kiss you on your knee,
Hee hee hee hee, hee hee hee hee hee hee hee.
And in September I contemplate surrender,
just dwell upon my odour and pour another soda,
in spite of Palestine.