[ Intro ] Observe… the human. A curious species residing on a rotating sphere, yet tragically obsessed… with rectangles. ⸻ [ Verse 1 ] They live in boxes made of concrete, Stacked skyward in ambitious defiance of gravity. They sleep in boxes, eat from boxes, Then stare into glowing boxes… for meaning. It is, by all logic… utterly unsustainable. But deeply human. ⸻ [ Verse 2 ] They move about in boxes on wheels, Which they call “cars,” And sometimes soar in metallic boxes with wings — A practice they charmingly call “air travel,” Though turbulence suggests otherwise. ⸻ [ Verse 3 ] For information, They consult handheld boxes with glass faces. These boxes speak, guide, entertain, scold, seduce — Their gods, their teachers, their babysitters. One might say… they’ve outsourced thought To pocket-sized rectangles. Totally impractical. Utterly impossible. Yet… they do it anyway. ⸻ [ Bridge ] And when their time comes… They enter yet another box — Lowered into the ground. As though their entire existence Had led to the final act of storage. ⸻ [ Verse 4 ] They call it “thinking outside the box,” Yet spend their lives acquiring new ones. Shoeboxes. Toolboxes. Safe deposit boxes. Lunchboxes. Checkboxes. Even their dreams… come in cardboard packaging. ⸻ [ Outro ] To us, this behaviour defies reason. But to them… It is home. It is comfort. It is civilisation, Contained… in corners. And that, my fellow travellers… Is what makes them so Beautifully boxed-in — But deeply human.
