I dreamed I was a hundred, and somehow still alive,
And waiting in my wheelchair for dinner to arrive
When children came to visit (I know how odd that seems
--I guess things like this happen in your dreams).

“Tell us about the old days, when you could go out in the sun,
And New York's streets weren't flooded, and oil would make cars run.
Where there rhinos in those days? Did you ever see a bear?
What about the dodo? In your day, was it still there?"

[this verse excluded in the recorded version: ]
Kids, I said, the dodo went long before I came,
But I remember rhinos, and what we called “big game.”
Those were the days. Back then you’d drink rain straight from the skies,
And it wouldn’t burn you, even if it fell right in your eyes.

Sure we all drove cars, sure we knew how it could end,
Sure we wanted power plants, progress was our friend.
And sure our highways messed up the scenery.
But what else could you do with sixty miles of greenery?

My dinner came, the kids left. They quickly said good-bye.
My evening pills looked different tonight. I heaved a sigh.
With that I woke up from my dream. I was running late,
So I had breakfast in the car. On a styrofoam plate.

-Marco Klaue and Rob Veith

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