The Kids

Here lies a generation born under the bus
Raised by early internet’s utopian dreams
Kids grew up and moved to go work in the valley
Writing endless code fit for a fascist regime
Life began to look just like the commercials
Their products were made by slaves and still we bought more
They were scanning and recording our physical bodies
While we changed them
Until wе didn’t feel like they werе ours anymore
Turn back
This isn’t something we need
While they bleed
Fuck that
Tell the old man take a seat
Your fairy tales are not for me
Daddy you’re fired
Pack up your desk
I want life to
Be worth living
Grandpa, go home
You’ve left such a mess
With your cynical
Backpedaling of progress
Hey, Bay street babies
With old wealth to burn
Go trade your Mercedes
And give what you earn
Shorting out markets
Is fun for a while
Til you see what we’re fighting
Don’t care much for style
Turn back
This isn’t something we need
While they bleed
Fuck that
Tell the old man take a seat
Your fairy tales are not for me
Turn back
This isn’t something we need
While they bleed
Fuck that
Tell the old man take a seat
Your fairy tales are not for me
The kids
Are wise
The kids
Our guys
The kids are wise
When they’re not mean and shallow
The kids are guys
Just looking for a new pal-o
They feign surprise
When the adults can’t be trusted
They know inside
That what they’ve sold them is busted
The kids
The kids
The kids
The kids