Love is nothing more, than a stain on a dress,
Watching things you sold, being purchased for less,
Euthanasia, that's easy to ingest, 
And they call this "making progress”
 
If you take a billion plus a little finesse,
And dreamy Yale boys, cashing in on the success,
Then you take a bath in Uncle Sam's treasure chest, 
That equals to making progress 
 
Meanwhile I am drowning in an ocean of stress,
Analyzing data for a sure, sure bet, 
An [bad word] that I can invest,
Your love, your sweet, sweet love, I guess 
 
The best,
If we got together tonight and regressed,
It's not like we'd be de-evolving,
And the world wouldn't stop revolving 
 
Could forget the problems no one's solving,
Surely I jest,
You're not listening anyway,
Where we go from here, baby, is anybody's guess,
So repress your insecurities and take off the dress,
Cause the day we realize no one can clean up this mess, 
Will be a fine day for making progress