One thousand castles of impermanence
For the petty lords of expansive space
We have created the Kingdom of the Car
In this, the land of suburbia
But what will we do when the oil runs out
Trapped in our monuments to decadence
The structures of our glutinous consumption
They will be megalithic tombs of our time
Our food no longer comes from the land
But the local supermarket
By the Grocer's magic hand
Making delicacies from paper stamped
With the heads of our dead leaders.
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