[Intro: A loose, rolling snare beat played with brushes on a metal pot. The upright piano pounds out a woozy, waltzing chord progression. The baritone sax blares a single, sour note that bends downward.] [Verse 1: The vocals enter, highly theatrical and dripping with cynical swagger. The piano plinks a ragged counter-melody.] There’s a fifty-foot brontosaurus chipping in the sun, (In the sun) Built out of chicken wire in nineteen sixty-one. The neon tube is buzzing, but the argon gas is low, A rusted-out museum for a discontinued show. (Discontinued show) We prop the heavy timber with a painted wooden crutch, Terrified of losing what we hardly even touch. (Hardly touch) [Chorus: The muted trumpet joins in, harmonizing discordantly with the baritone sax. The percussion gets louder, shifting into a heavy, foot-stomping rhythm for the call-and-response.] Throw a quarter in the box! (Quarter in the box!) Prop the heavy timber up! (Heavy timber up!) We don’t care if it’s a ghost, As long as we can fill the cup! Neon! (Neon!) Taxidermy! (Taxidermy!) Paint the concrete, make it shine! Drag it to the finish line! [Verse 2: The horns drop out, leaving only a skeletal bass groove and the clattering pots. The vocals drop to a gritty, conspiratorial whisper.] I bought the ticket, stood behind the velvet rope. (Behind the rope) A monument to memory, a monument to hope. But the souvenir is plastic, and the spectacle is cheap, We worship at the altar of a promise we can't keep. (A promise we can't keep) The culture is a carcass that we drag across the stage, (Drag it... drag it...) Reading from the script of a forgotten, yellowed page. [Instrumental Break: Absolute junkyard chaos. The baritone sax and muted trumpet engage in a wild, improvisational duel over the woozy piano. It sounds like a New Orleans funeral march crashing into a circus tent. Lasts for eight manic bars.] [Chorus: Maximum volume. Every instrument is pushed to the red. The vocals are shouted with cathartic, frayed passion, meant to be screamed by a live audience.] Throw a quarter in the box! (Quarter in the box!) Prop the heavy timber up! (Heavy timber up!) We don’t care if it’s a ghost, As long as we can fill the cup! Neon! (Neon!) Taxidermy! (Taxidermy!) Paint the concrete, make it shine! Drag it to the finish line! [Outro: The music suddenly collapses, as if the power plug was pulled. Just a lone, squeaking kick drum pedal and a final, sputtering breath from the baritone sax. The vocals murmur, tired and deflated.] Ah... (Ah...) Just dust. (Just dust) Just dust in the glass eye. [The piano lid slams shut.]
