pick up my guitar, i play with no strings attached.
cause upper tiers will puppeteer, cut your strings and dash.
these long nosed liars think you're wooden wingless trash,
but if your song rose higher, then they wouldn't blink to cash.

i know the sting
eyes roll, cha-ching
sign it over, *sigh* it's over
swine own the swing

that dotted line is some unsteady ground. 
spotted in the fine print, something's ready to pounce.
the subtle art of double talk drum from the mouth,
plus it's smartist jungle chartists construct the rout.

you keep your movement,
and creep into a future sheep are fluent leaders too in,
and doin what you dream of doin,
chewin on the finest grade of grass that's available
in lieu of constant whining blazing grass in a trailer home.
you can compromise and bake your batch with that staler dough,
like childs play, i'll escape my trap without failure,
so i pick up my guitar and play with no strings attached
and fall into the beat when i know things are bad