She led the mortal lifestyle trying to know what's cool  Carrying feelings of littleness she learned from school  She packed her bags and mapped out all her goals and moves 

Now she's living in the bath house; her whole soul consumed  

 On the daily but maybe she can take a break  Her reflection ponders in the golden ceiling as she makes it shake  Tell her to live like a pastor, preacher or maybe saint  But they visit her everyday to mend their shaken faith  She has business men, and capitalists tearing her silken gown  Whispering their intricate schemes to keep her people down  Even as Earth rolls off the edges of gods frown   Orwellian proles stay blissful in the lost and found  Because these nettas must run to let their hearts pound  Their footsteps in the distance are the only sound  For these broken hearted artists, writers and lonely clowns  But maybe I will think different when I get out of town