Alyson Greenfield: Music

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We get so by on our good looks,
we don't know who to sell them to.
We're askin', just a small price,
like 50,000 and a soul or two.

I'll just give you a backpack,
to stuff my brain in for safe-keeping.
If there's enough room for yours too,
we'll have brains in a backpack instead of a vat.

And the world, as we know it
might contract.
And the world as we know it
might fit in a computer chip's back.

We get so prideful of our good looks,
and that's why we've got plastic surgery.
All those doctors, with their "good books," working so damn hard
in their laboratories.
Concocting a new face,
concocting a new human race
of Fountain of Youth falsity.

Ponce de Leon, take me down to the
Florida Keys.
I'm in with you, but you've got to get in with me.
Cool kids, and cool cliques and cool looks, and Dick Blick art supplies--
why don't we just paint ourselves into oblivion?
Where attraction doesn't exist.

I'll meet you on the 16th floor of the
Sistene Chapel ceiling.
Or you can wait for me at Notre Dame, in a crack in a butress' flying feeling.

All the time we've got architects, reconstructing our faces and our bodies.
If we paid half as much attention to our minds and our innate physicalities, we might be fine. We might be fine.

'Cause the world, as we know it
might contract.
And the world as we know it
might fit in a computer chip's back.
Yeah, the world as we know it might contract. And the world as we know it might fit in a computer chip's back.