That the hands and feet are made,
As well as all those organs found inside,
Without any help from this technological age?
Everything made has artificial vibes,
Like mixtures of warm and of cold air,
Surrounding my nose, telling me it's not real,
But knowing there's no Nature left anywhere.
But that's alright because we can adapt, can't we?
To any circumstances that we create.
That is our talent until we make the air something,
That our fragile bodies just cannot take.
And it's alright,
I'm not here preaching any kind of doom.
My baby's going to grow up in this world,
And, so, it'll just have to clean up its act soon.
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