Vārdi: Electric Six. Señor Smoke. Jimmy Carter.

Like Jimmy Carter,
like electric underwear.
Like any idea that never had a chance to go anywhere,
this is who you are:

A paid celebrity
who drives off a bridge in a car,
your beautiful body filling up with water.

Like Harry Truman dropping bombs out of the air,
like any self-respecting multi-billionaire,
this is who you are:

Five dancing teenage boys
who sing their way into our hearts.
Backstreet's back, alright.

And there's a toxic cloud hanging over;
there's white noise on the screen.
And there's a man in a hotel room
assaulting a maid who just came to clean up the mess.

Backstreet's back, alright.

Like Ronald Reagan falling asleep forever more,
dreaming of horses and
dreaming of nuclear war.
This is where we are tonight,
everybody under survelliance from a satellite.
You can be the first one on your block to die.

And there's a plague of locusts upon us
and there's a nightmare in the swarm.
And there's a lion out in the desert
slouching to Bethlehem to be born again.

Backstreet's back, alright. Alright