The people of straight-land all live in a row. Tiny little boxes, and no-where to go. You've got to get a job to maintain the position. A bright, happy dream as prescribed by your physician. The people of straight-land have really got it made. A warm friendly sleep from the cradle to the grave. A bright plastic lie of cash and credit. A huge, gray fantasy you'll really want to edit. The people of straight-land are really not alive. We walk and speak but only just survive. We move around but under direction. We cannot see the larger perception. There people of straight-land make a silent scream. Desperate to escape this death day-dream. Rotting from the inside it's really not polite. You've got to shield your eyes from such an everyday sight.