Desaparecidos Follow

The man at the bank said "oh, let's not talk percentages".
Fourteen hour day, still two mortgages.
You asked the state for aid,
they gave you an ad campaign that didn't help.
You took your family and joined in the urban sprawl.
Can't see the stars as well,
but you're near the mall.
Don't know where you stand no more,
in line at a convenience store that's way too long.
Used to work your land, fed a thousand mouths,
now you eat their shit for the money now,
emptied your heart to fill your bank account.
Well, I should talk, I'm just the same,
buy my records down at the corporate chain.
I tell myself I shouldn't be ashamed... but I am!

Adolescence made her an activist,
now she's the one who does all the lecturing.
They got their eighteen holes,
she told 'em to dig one more-
the dream is dead.
Won't eat their food or wear their clothes,
always wants to know where her money goes,
but will shell it out for filling up her nose.
So run it up, I'll run my mouth,
but never mind the shit that I sing about,
'cause I'd sell myself to buy a fucking house.

Twelve thousand square foot, four car garage!
Tennis court, swimming pool, in the backyard!
I know it can seem like a lot.
That's why I pay someone to clean it up.
We're gonna clean it up.
My big house.