c'è un fuoco che aspetta solo benzina

They were digging a new foundation in Manhattan
And they discovered a slave cemetery there
May their souls rest easy now that lynching is frowned upon
And we've moved on to the electric chair

And I wonder who's gonna be president
Tweedle Dumb or Tweedle Dumber?
And who's gonna have the big
Blockbuster box office
This summer

How 'bout we put up a wall
Between the houses and the highway
And then you can go your way
And I can go my way

Except all the radios agree with all the TV's
And all the magazines agree with all the radios
And I keep hearing that same damn song
Everywhere I go

Maybe I should put a bucket over my head
And a marshmallow in each ear
And stumble around for another dumb numb week
For another hum drum hit song to appear

People used to make records
As in a record of an event
The event of people
Playing music in a room

Now everything is cross-marketing
It's about sunglasses and shoes
Or guns or drugs
You choose

We got it rehashed
We got it half-assed
We're digging up all the graves
And we're spitting on the past

(...)

Is there anything I can do
About anything at all
Except go back to that corner in Manhattan
And dig deeper
Dig deeper this time

Down beneath the impossible pain of our history
Beneath unknown bones
Beneath the bedrock of the mystery
Beneath the sewage system and the path train
Beneath the cobblestones and the water main
Beneath the traffic of friendships and street deals
Beneath the screeching of kamikaze cab wheels
Beneath everything I can think of to think about
Beneath it all
Beneath all get out
Beneath the good and the kind and the stupid and the cruel
There's a fire that's just waiting for fuel
(Ani Di Franco, Fuel)