Gerald Lee Palmer
Raises his daughter
In a house in the suburbs
He spent half of his life
Makin' auto parts
He dealt with the lay-offs
And got an IT job
And raised his kids like statistics
Now every so often
He thinks of his daughter
She wakes up,
Still consumed by his silence
And he wonders why
She don't call him
She gets by,
Goes through with her life
She occasionally thinks about
How it's his fault
That she's fallen
Belly up, belly up
Belly up, belly up
She's fallen, belly up
Belly up, belly up
She's fallen
So we are all lonely
We are all 'if only's
We are all porcelain dolls on display
We are all products of
Hard-workin' Americans
But we're roadblocks to efficiency
We are the inaccuracies
We are the victims of a culture that
Defines happiness in economics
And we wake up
Unfulfilled by the silence of
A million clueless fuckin' patriarchs
Like Gerald Lee Palmer
Who misses his daughter,
But he never even talked to her
And it's his own fault now that he's fallin'
Belly up, belly up
Belly up, belly up
He's fallin' belly up
Belly up, belly up
He's fallin'