What has become of all of us, all ceilings, all skiesnis that, the stars can swim a thousand dark milesnbefore they ever see the floor againnwith their backs against the wall on these last daysnbut then, we knew that would happen anywaynyou drop that pitch-black pallnover us, one and all, againnto propel your national machinesngiving us all the disease, but not the vaccinena thousand tiny livesndisappear into the black stretchnI guess I thought I'd feel something but I didn'tnyes, that's a mythnI would give anythingnfor a cool glass of waternwithout this poisonous oilnnonit's never going to be good enoughnthere's no air anywherenit's all money nownwouldn't you do the same?