half faked, half managed, a flock of birds are scared,

 

half sure and half convinced, wash me down with zuma rinse.

theres no cure and they watch you sink, wash me out with zuma shine, for are we not just another product in line?

 

were down here looking for some radical signs, just below the poverty line.

confusion reigns supreme, so join the conga line.

hunting spiritual rebirth, through interior design,

Im laying in the sick berth, drawing out an equals sign,

Ive pulled the emergency brake, and im glad its too late,

in the waters of an artificial lake even nature feels fake,

and if the atmosphere we pick up feels false, tell me its only give and take.

were stuck in a torrid zone, I still shake my shoulder bones,