When the grass grows long
And finds itself getting shaggy
When the leaves turn brown
And find themselves defying gravity
When the motion is heard
And Doppler enforces his rules
When the oven does smell
Yet the stomach still growls
We find ourselves at a tipping point
A pinnacle at which there exists at most two roads
To the left, and to the right
The blue or the red [pill]
And at this choice,
Burdensome to many
A blessing to most,
We poise, ready for takeoff
Can you feel it?
Does the anticipation,
The calm before the storm,
Raise little hairs on your neck?
[For surely it does]
It must remain all that we have;
Lead temperance to control
The most irate of our desires
And when the grass gets cut
When the gravity grabs them leaves
And the sound pierces thine skull
The stomach, it shall sit content
