Fat Cats and Satellite Souls
A fat man like a pig with black rimmed glasses, and the suit and tie to match
He lights his cigar, and stares out the window of his multi-million dollar loft
Into a small little world; he pinches a dash of cocaine onto the top part of his hand
Walks over to an altered state of mirror, he examines his face abstract with vision
All pouring with sweat, skin as red as blood, such beauty he sees what he wants
These become needs, like walking on a carpet made of needles, so he lies
He turns towards the bed, where his heartless wife lay, strung out on prescriptions
He demands her to take off her clothes and pose for the sake of love and art
Without a soul or thought she turns on like a robot, made purely for gold
She stares like a trance towards the hourglass, tapping feet, just waiting for him to die
That day will arrive, the day she begins painting herself old, in a big house alone
Programmed so perfect by America properly, without a thought or a choice
Sell your ears for antennas, and pray by God your souls will become satellites
He lights his cigar, and stares out the window of his multi-million dollar loft
Into a small little world; he pinches a dash of cocaine onto the top part of his hand
Walks over to an altered state of mirror, he examines his face abstract with vision
All pouring with sweat, skin as red as blood, such beauty he sees what he wants
These become needs, like walking on a carpet made of needles, so he lies
He turns towards the bed, where his heartless wife lay, strung out on prescriptions
He demands her to take off her clothes and pose for the sake of love and art
Without a soul or thought she turns on like a robot, made purely for gold
She stares like a trance towards the hourglass, tapping feet, just waiting for him to die
That day will arrive, the day she begins painting herself old, in a big house alone
Programmed so perfect by America properly, without a thought or a choice
Sell your ears for antennas, and pray by God your souls will become satellites
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