Suburbia has trees that stretch
up toward the cotton candy sky;
where bad parents play games of catch
with kids who do nothing but lie.
This place seems beautiful at first,
but soon our sinful souls will burst.

Up toward the cotton candy sky
the sinners raise their shaky hands.
Broken-winged birds who long to fly
lost in the seas of marching bands.
But football fields of lonely birds
beat churches full of empty words.

Where bad parents play games of catch
to mask malevolence with fun.
A batch of cookies made from scratch
poisoned with "Don't tell anyone."
Wind chimes whisper, kids never learn,
and rows of picket fences burn.

With kids who do nothing but lie
each suburban parent is blessed.
And yet, when a shooter arrives
the kids still send a goodbye text.
When bad blood stains the classroom floor
suburban kids lie evermore.

This place seems beautiful at first
as colorful leaves fall like dreams.
But look closer; you'll see our worst;
if walls could talk they'd spill our schemes.
Suicidal squirrels stain streets red
and women who say "No" fall dead.

But soon our sinful souls will burst,
sick from the perpetual pain.
Our loss and lies can't be reversed,
so let picket fence ashes rain.
Broken-winged birds, follow this map
out of suburbia's cruel trap.