GENERATION We're here to cut the ropes off! and get your hands untied! Greet my generation with yer arms open wide! Yeah, meet my generation We feed our morals no pride. Meet my generation We don't take our quarrels outside. (no, we'd rather sing) "Fomp Fomp Fomp, biddle-ee-bomp bomp." Meet my generation If we're pissed we'll say. We won't bottle it 'til it comes out some convoluted way. My generation has thrown that crap behind. We tolerate most any faith, any state of mind. Meet my generation. Please, ma'am just the facts. We feel no need to spill no seed but Truth upon these tracks. Yeah, meet my generation We don't fall in love with things. Instead we save our soul to crave the gold in human beings. (let me hear ya say) "Fomp Fomp Fomp, biddle-ee-bomp bomp." My generation don't believe the hype. We've seen too many false prophets crowned in forty-point type. My generation, we're through playing cool. We follow no bland recipes, make up our own rules.

CHAOS A word called Chaos is in order to describe the way your mind's behaving seeing Justice in her lingerie... ...portents of nation's detonations...oh, it's deadening... How worse can hell be? Here can well be just as threatening! So quickly are our mores fading, we lose all sense of Sense. Our Past and Future start invading. They wake their ghosts, they shake their bones, they make our Present tense. Stop giggling, it's only chaos. Keep chanting: It's only chaos. Whirlpools in my eyes...ev'ry sunrise...can't connect the dots... apocalypses...and ellipses joining scattered thoughts... Restraining Order slaps a border on libido's cloud. Soldiers of Dogma are the smegma of the dull and loud. Only the Strong will perservere in Truth's penniless pursuit. Enough to see, once the dust starts clearing, this Mayhem’s seed has borne a new and never-bitten fruit. Stop giggling, it's only chaos. Keep chanting: It's only chaos. So add the spice of vice to virtue. Initiate your soul. A little pinch impure won't hurt you. Re-liberate all that those tethers called your arms control. Stop giggling. It's only chaos. Keep chanting: It's only chaos. Stop chaking. It's only chaos. Start embracing only chaos. What else is there? Only chaos. Keep chanting: It's only chaos. Admit it. There's only chaos. What's pure when there's only chaos?

MOTORCADE If there's a message you could hear I'd swear to God I'd make it clear. I'd tell you how I'm sick and tired of how you've got the whole shit wired by teaching me resent and hate towards those the least empow'red of state. As if, for all faults, they're to blame When I know it's you who runs the game. “Them foreigners look so pitiful” --- 'cause they're not in your motorcade! Yeah, in your motorcade it's too much trouble to peek out your windowshade. Your motorcade’s your little bubble safe from real life's dark parade. If there's a message I could send that I'd be sure you'd comprehend it's that Your Time is Up. We're wise to how you primp and subsidize the wealthy who make missiles sleek that grow obsolete in a week. "As long as it makes jobs!" you say. You keep real progress miles away, like all the riffraff screaming as you're riding in your motorcade. Yeah, in your motorcade it's too much trouble to peek out your windowshade. Yeah, your motorcade absorbs the rubble tumbled from the mess you made. You motorcade is half-enlaid with tooth-melt gold to help protect you, disinfect you from the fold that grow two boots with each blue suit you make stand guard next to your fence, your bedroom vents, atop ten motorcycles gliding down each broken boulevard. If there's a message you could know I swear to God I'd make it glow in neon lights that line the curbs as you're escorted through the 'burbs to bribe folks not to vote you out. Paint demons they can go chew out. And if you only last one term I'm sure there's some other job to which you can squirm ...about a block down; we'll still drive your ass there in your motorcade! Yeah, your motorcade, your little bubble safe from real life's dark parade. Yeah, your motorcade absorbs the rubble tumbled from the mess you made. Yeah, your motorcade, your little bubble safe from real life's dark parade.

lyrics permission of Joni Mitchell and Crazy Crow Publishing

THIS GADFLY These imperfections, these infections that all of you introduced me to (when I was waddling, wrapped in swaddling, one or two), have become habits, automatic, second nature. I hope you're happy with these beasts like me you've made. 'Cause we're sick boys and we've been poisoned but by your standards we're just fine especially when we make your grade. So here you have "La Ferme de Pavlov." Here we are, mouths watering over girls and guns. But I won't race in- to formation like the others if the big flood ever comes. 'Cause I've got theorems they're the serums for diseases you disseminate. See Reason's Might hide behind my right eye. Look at my left, it's full of dreams. I open one up, close the other depending on the situation. I'm perfecting how to operate. So that when the Flood comes this Gadfly flies away.

MANPOWER You, with the ribbons in your hair: Recall when there were flowers there? Before the Men in Power saw red and turned yours into a scapegoat's head? They said your pursuit of liberty had thrown all their boys in poverty and "made most you women disobey." How could so much change from yesterday? And they seated their chiefs, resplendent and they gave them the words you wore; and they helped make your Sex descendent by closing your ev'ry door; and if you still felt independent, they'd demote you to working poor. You were working, but guess who for? for the Men in Power. Manpower for the Men in Power. (Who are the men enshrouded holding silent strings round my hands that tug to make me blame you and twist if I refuse to?) You, with the powder on your cheek: They've made the facts to keep you weak. Their yellow research headlined the rags while editors of the fashion mags said, "Your freedom's made you discontent" except when you'd choose their sponsor's scent. And soon household goods would catch your eye 'til "Surrender!" was your soul's sole reply. And they deified hip reduction and your roles early on were played; they convinced you a liposuction was a sure way to make the grade; and the press, with their trend construction, called you Over-The-Hill Old Maid so you'd panic, and wed, afraid, for the Men in Power. Manpower for the Men in Power. (Have we made no progress? 
 Has there been no lesson we've learned? Are they so frail and fearful They need to see you cower? If they're disenfranchised boys are paid 'til tables are turned. These men-in-white's advantage is that they own the tower. And the fact I'm passive makes me all the more concerned! Am I too tired and jaded to fight the Men in Power?)

PLATFORMS This Song I Wrote is a far ways away from here. With it, though, I swear you could get your conscience clear. You could make your sobs soak the heart of some financier who thinks that gold licks the tip of each well-aimed spear. You could demand a recount of any crooked polls. You could uplift your spirits like you're wearing platform souls or walking round on stilts your heart controls through choking soldiers bent o'er streets of coals. Yeah, you could go straight to the war-torn wrapped in gauze, and deep-freeze them with a worthy cause while the breeze through the trees gives applause. You keep walking while the healing thaws through fields that Cezanne draws you change your feet to tiger's paws ask which road is Shangri-La's take a left at the Land of Oz pass the statue of Santa Claus then you'll know you're in this song I wrote. This song I wrote could make a politician sweat. Stab a snapshot future through his conscience like a bayonet. Show him wheelchair dowries in the cradle, crying, "Massive Debt!" And its ev'ry phrase'd be a sword-tongued epithet. And it'd lick some pea-brained "education president" by stirring up each couch-trousered resident and getting them to look inside their porpcupine coats to see beneath their purse a throbbing heart that's being robbed a vote and be thankful this here's a Voter Republic and get in the booth or see a Notary Public and mark a ballot true, and approved, and by the millions, by God, we'll prove to those fuckers who can't feel to groove that they ain't wanted, pack their things, and MOVE! Clean out the sin, we're movin in, it's time to rid the world of your covert crime! The only thing to stop us now is a rhyme. Well, then, I see...it's just a song I wrote. This song I wrote might be my ticket outta here. The only thing anyone else might ever hear. And since it might work I guess I'd best make this sincere, to educate, and raise someone's consciousness one tier; to combat crap heedless hoodlum popstar tarts emit too busy trying to top the charts to dare admit to the spiritual casualties they inflict on their fans, as they walk Fame's road, so yellow-bricked. The Fame they seek to get the spotlight shown on them, to preach, and let themselves be known to me, and you, and her, and every other drone. So they're the flower to be sucked on, to be grown. But each idea of theirs is a vapid seed. It's from a soul where fame's the only need Yet in this world, where the god is greed, vapid is valid if the purses bleed. These and other injustices cause me to calmly re-ink my claws and let the muses rejuice my jaws to let go a little song I wrote. It might seem like, with all of these impassioned platform pleas, I should be singing "Vote For Me!" But I'm not, don't get me wrong. I'm just a singer, and this song I wrote, I wrote for me.