歌词：Tilt. Acathasia.

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.
Submitted by: Mel