[Motif] Every hit makes more to hit. I can count it; I can't wish it quit. Every hit makes more to hit. Who left the whole sky running? [Verse 1] I operate an orbital arcade with no attendant. The prizes are connections; the discarded parts are permanent— Not literally forever, but long enough to matter When a collision turns one problem into many pieces scattered. September's space report describes the feedback in the ceiling. I look up at your frontier. It's acquired a housekeeping feeling. Each useful satellite can serve a very earthly purpose. That doesn't make its afterlife Some other planet's burden. [Drop] Every hit makes more to hit. No bonus ball. No clean reset. [Verse 2] Stop adding new machines and existing debris still presents A risk of further fragmentation, more potential incidents. This isn't every orbit doomed tomorrow when you wake; It's a long-term warning with decisions people still can make. Disposal at life's ending, fewer avoidable collisions, And removal of existing junk Must enter serious provision. Prevention costs attention; neglect compounds the bill. I can write a lovely launch speech. Who commissions "Bring it in"? [Break] I love the multiplication. I adore a rising chart. Then I notice what I'm counting: Every point a broken part. So I change the score to subtraction. Fewer hazards, clearer lanes. The investor asks where growth went. I point to what remains: A useful route tomorrow, Room for missions not yet born. Sometimes making less of something Is what progress is for. [Motif] Every hit makes more to hit. I can count it; I can't wish it quit. Every hit makes more to hit. Who left the whole sky running? [Outro] The flippers can't reach. The glass isn't a shield. The ball has no interest In the names on your deals. I have achieved a revolutionary high score: One less thing For the next thing to hit.
