60 WPM

Pull up to the stop line
Stop because it's a red light
My eyes go blurry and my mind goes dark
I don't notice when the light turns green
Until somebody honks at me
I'm not inebriated, I'm just jaded
Maybe I could change my name
To Cherilyn Sarkisian, or maybe Robert Zimmerman
It seems to be available, but then my name would just be Rob

Maybe, if I lived in a museum
I might find a greater sense of purpose (rush hour day dreaming)
I'd wander from exhibit to exhibit
Posing as historical figures (rush hour day dreaming)
And then, at night, I'd have an air-conditioned hall
And an under-cushioned couch on which I'd slumber
And I would learn all about our ancestors
And plug the leaks that let them out into the world to linger

Instead of type type typing sixty words a minute
'Til the bone punctures the skin
And I'm no longer a member of society
Yeah I'm just a skeleton

But I'm not changing my name, and I'm not moving away
Because neither option helps me escape the inevitable destiny
Of feeling like butter spread over too much bread
From going undercover to justify some shit I said (rush hour day dreaming)

So, it's back to type type typing sixty words a minute
'Til the bone punctures the skin (rush hour day dreaming)
'Til my insides become my outsides, and the worms destroy my body
And I win (rush hour day dreaming)