Little green men coming out of paint cans,
Phosphate mines and Slaked Lime, 1966, he was sixteen,
its Central Florida in the era of the dragline,
play it over the pit and dig up more of that green shit,
and trade it with the Russians, who are traditionally hated,
you can imagine that after a few years
that youd run out of things to say,
and Ill be here every day.
Phospho~Gypsum, Radon-222,
the daughters watch over you,
on a transformer four stories high it walks like a cripple
and turns on its base,
diggin up that Dicalcium Phosphate.
Travel the blacktop
and you wont have far to go to find an alien civilization,
a creature from a creation thats from outer space.
Sixty foot high for miles around;
one million tons of Phospho~Gypsum tailings rise to the sky.
Nearly half the worlds fertilizer once lay beneath the overburden;
it got taken off this sandbar,
and now theres something thats left behind.
Hey, this place is a mess
what are you takin about?
Ill clean it up later.
No, thats not the way it is at all, Im not a miner I dont care,
man, thats pant of the system, Im punk,
but whos gonna indict the Wall Street Journal, just me and Bob Ray,
its just part of the system here on the surface of the planet
and the day has come when theres only work left
Theres unlimited sunshine in a bottle of Tropicana,
with his friends and his Spooky Tooth 8-track flipped upside down,
drivin in his Mercury Monterey down to Lithia Springs,
saying that if we could take the tailings,
and build a building for the New York Stork Exchange,
then we could tell everyone about
how we live in a state that digs Radon by the ton
and youll be loved by everyone,
and the government will give us a Superfund,
and were Radon, and thats Science Fiction.