Woke up in the morning light with one idea in his head
Appearing out of nowhere, a little voice got up and said,
«Don’t you worry about anything else except the task at hand.
It’s just a matter of logistics and sticking to the plan.»
In a flash the days went by just like he’d written down
A series of black marks approaching the red one further down
And every date beyond was filled with what the little voice had said
repeating through the seasons: «Dead. Dead. Dead.»
CHORUS:
What’s gonna become of us?
A generation out of touch not sure of very much
Took out his calender and marked it all down
Cancelled the paper, took the dog to the pound
Took out his calender, scheduled it right
Quit the job, buy the rope and tied the knot tight
And every date beyond was filled with what the little voice had said