Gated Community

You are the suburbs inside and out
The sickly streetlights and cloud of bugs
Oozing something half assed, but never bright
You are the boy in the yellow brick house

(so wicked wicked wicked)

Dinner on china and you smell like cut grass
And cut things
Like what’s wedged beside inside cartilage
It’s just a suburban thing

You and that cult, some fucking god worship
Pyramid prints and leather laces
You don’t come by anymore
And you never did in the first place

White picket fence
You play defense
You don’t come by anymore

We’d never make it in the countryside
Would we?
We’d never ever make it in the countryside