Behold this road that's never passed
It would never let me dash, across it's sacred asphalt and it's ancient grass

The full peripheral, never even a little full, deprived of urchins
No samartins and no hoodrats pulling strings behind the curtains
No divine allurement, no invisible force calling you to the path
Just a tombstone where Robert Frost scrawled his epitaph
Theres a few sprawled on the grass, there's Hitler and Napolean
There's George Bush and Van Gogh and some hypocritic Holy men
Who would've sold there soul for this. This barren, empty route
This road... flowing off of the despairy entry, and Highway Astute
But traced back it's roots, its just unaccesable
Tangled in unpure veins and rusted ventricles
A path, many have lust for it still.. but they slip and never see it
A stop sign on the rotary that it picks it enemys with
A sentry, an oculus percieving all your choices, your motives and
Your thoughts, an eye seeing from detroit to the holy land
Destroying and folding man, as they scream for the highway
Whole populations seemingly dreaming to fly away
Before they die and stray from their soul's only selection
Dreaming, needing, wanting... to reach the road to perfection