There live women with tissue-paper skin
Riding cardboard ponies
To where all the houses are made of tin
And where the American Dream is phony.

There live men with chalk dust brains
Waiting sexless for a walker
And a cane.

There are the pop-up book homes
Made of foam
Where the empty hearts roam
Dazzling in their faux happiness and splendor
Addicted to MORE and MORE,
Though what it is to fill the void
The concept lies
Idly, for the only sage
Is he who buys
He who doesn't, pitifully cries
For the demise of the only love
The American Dream offers.