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To nie mój dom

de Tilt

One laydown machine burned a road, right through the prairie, stream of
boiling ash painted up with perfect lines, discount labor packing each
lane, bargain basement homes sewn to the road, slipshod directions do
not explain. I got these shoes for nothing and they have lasted me
forever, searching up and down the lost highway. I can read the grid, I
have memorized the key, counting every inch from C-4 to J-3, I can think
in scale 'cause I know it ain't on my map, scraping off the typeset, dig
into the atlas. Well they can paint it up, make it appear to go
somewhere, well they can paint it up, but I know where it doesn't lead.

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