For my great-great-great-grandbabies,
cities will be like fish hatcheries.
A proud analogy, our nations and the sea,
unless our civilizations
migrate to great space stations in the sky.
Freezer factory trawlers,
night crawlers.
Space stations in the sky,
sea-freeze you and I.
We choose to go to the moon.
We choose to go to the moon.
What's the matter with captivity,
for living protein like you and me?
Bumping uglies with a friend or two
in a giant tank in east Peru.
Good tuna stocks off Angola,
as we take off in our starflight parabola.
Boomers bred us, and we're gonna breed,
and the cycle restarts, and soon we'll need some space.
Freezer factory trawlers,
night crawlers.
Space stations in the sky,
sea-freeze you and I.
We choose to go to the moon.
We choose to go to the moon

KORREKTUREN ÃœBERMITTELN