| When the forest circuit shorts |
| And the wolves surround your wired ports |
| Oh Jupiter, your storm is naught |
| UV laser beams can dance all night |
| Just quarantine the chief and squaws |
| And email every breath he draws |
| To the ringtone maker in New York |
| Bleating wilderness, so festive like |
| Awake, Hiawatha, as the howling dies |
| Helicopter purring like a mammoth child |
| I think we’ll put casinos here |
| Make the reservation disappear |
| Just swap your tomahawks for tablets, dear |
| Wade the insect carpet, I can make friends |
| Now tear gas billows as you crawl |
| I see kevlar through the acrid wall |
| It seems the rain dance worked out after all |
| Bloodshot eagle spasm all the way down |
| So curb these addictions, Big-Sea-Water shine |
| Information sickness of a worthless kind |
| Pale face and Pepsi wave, the gentle hum |
| This is what will happen when the waters come |
| And it’s on with the contract |
| You lose enough, all becomes abstract |
| So why don’t you do what they ask you? |
| The sickness coming over again |
| And you can stop, son, find the spillage |
| Drop that iPod, save the village |
| Thrashing in a bowl of your germs |
| And in the end, we bend, but easily break |
| We’re taking to the trees and holes |
| And the orphan boy is coming home |
| The stench of smoke signals and microphones |
| Crown of feathers pressed against the warm glass |
| And yeah, you got bubonic plague, plague |
| But a purple heart is all the rage, rage |
| Nobody likes an earthquake, Craig, Craig |
| It’s just a vision that you’ll have to trust |
| So pout, Hiawatha, like you smell the trees |
| We can get that Totem sponsored easily |
| Pale face and Pepsi wave, the gentle hum |
| This is what will happen when the waters come |
| And it’s on with the contract |
| You lose enough, all becomes abstract |
| So why don’t you do what they ask you? |
| The sickness coming over again |
| And you can stop, son, find the spillage |
| Drop that iPod, save the village |
| Thrashing in a bowl of your germs |
| And we can stop this, thrashing in a bowl of your germs |
| Don’t need an atlas, Jesus, we knew just who we were |
| And in the end we bend, but easily break |