From The Recordings Html
Poor me, Grandpa swung down from a tree and he started his mission. “God’s” hand made him separate from the land, it’s my human condition. I’d love to reconcile, but my recycling pile cannot deny the fact. From birth I’ve been cancer to the earth with no chance of remission. Still she’s spinning around. Run her into the ground, we better turn this around, come around to the realization we are one. My, my, Grandpa burned up all the sky now the coasts are much wetter. I’ve seen I’m a cog in his machine and I’m really no better. I’d be a greener lover, but every creature comfort I’ve ever dreamed is mine. Land fills, convenience kills and we all die together. Is it "too late baby, now it’s too late"?