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The Streets of America (Bad Religion)

Desolate and without purpose radiating from so many septic sources forming the fabric of a wayward people disappearing as the vestiges of our past Scratched like tartan into virgin soil a substrate for progress and disarray a spreading network of broken dreams searching for a thoroughfare to take us away Just a little tale from the streets of America (say a little prayer) sparkled promises paved with pathos and hysteria trenchant, weary native sons step back and see the damage done meander to the horizon (shoot straight to the horizon) the streets of America Black, tarred concrete pine for me lying domant for you and country hardened surface cracked within catch the sweat from off the chin Of men and women senior and child who look to you and your sterile miles and in their stares is bald dismay for what you promised led them astray Hard-cracked, daunting, lifeless veins false hope corridors to greener pastures is all that remains