It was the rage of plastics; I was 24 I was doing my time on the dancefloor It was all polyester and leopard print And Fabergé coming off the ladies I know it's a blight to the brightest how our designs unseam Like the backside of some skirt in some old man's dream I got caught putting off all my traveling plans For this refinery job and his maybes With hair in ribbons, stockings in runs Fashion bricks out of the breaks as they come Land goes for less downwind of the plant There's no telling how long you'll be paying There are scores of us born in the silent spring Whose wombs won't take, won't bear anything He had want for a daughter, and I had want for a son Now I rock my moon faced man like one Was it the river on fire that made us what we became? Was it the cup that we drank from, or what it contained? Does it move to the beat of the oil drums Or flow out of our eyes as we're wailing? And I see it rise in ribbons to the clouds overhung Just to spit back down on everyone Land goes for less downwind of the plant There's no telling how long you'll be paying