Red Bikini Waltz

Take your red bikinis and your lamborghinis
Take your tans and your men with the spray in their hair
Take your tasteless beers and your replenished beach
And your tacky houses that you built on the sea
That'll just wash away in the next hurricane
But it don't matter none; you just build 'em up again
And they'll be bigger and faster and stronger than before
'Til they pick up their skirts and they walk down the street
Sayin', "Fuck all y'all! We're movin' to the country."
So they plop down and call themselves luxury suites
A name that a man invented in his sleep
Now the driveways are filled with lamborghinis
And the backyards are filled with red bikinis
And that poor, little piece of fertile country
Could've been growin' some food for a factory to reap
To process and package for a family to eat
Who look with envy at that house on the street
What they don't know is those people've got nothin' that lasts
'Cause they don't even really know their own kids
Who get good grades in school and fill their days all with things
And who don't realize that they can't even think
For themselves and don't even know how to ask why
'Cause they're told what to think
And what they're told is a good-for-nothin',
Dirty-rotten-scoundrel of a lie