There’s a low-flying plane
Flying solo in the sky,
And it’s spraying these thick white streams
As it flies on by
And it’s leaving all these criss-crosses
In the sky.

Oh, woe is me, here!
What’s coming now to be, here?
Got those look-up-the-sky’s-messed-up-
We’re-gonna-die-blues!

Now, there were
No such clouds, back when I was a child;
There were storm clouds blackening, or white clouds,
Sweet and mild.
Something’s weird! Now, something’s off.
Something wrong’s getting piled.

Oh, take a peek, here,
At floating, fluffy freaks, here!
God is paint-brushing streaks?
Oh, no! Something sneaks, here!

Now I have a good friend.
Oh, she’s got the asthma bad.
You know, when fake clouds appear,
She coughs, wheezes like mad, yeah!
Do you think
They’ve hurt her just a tad?

Lord, they’ll make her die, now!
Those clouds could make her die, now!
Oh, just watch her lungs fry!
Breathe that spotted, speckled sky,
And die, die, die!

Now there’s a low-flying plane
Spraying white lines in the sky,
And I wonder why it’s spraying:
Does it purify?
Change the weather? Change the farmlands?
Genocide?
Yeah…

Oh, don’t you know, though?
Hey! God’s playing tic-tac-toe, bro!
In that criss-cross-filled sky—
What d’you think you know, shmoe?

So there’s fake clouds, weird grooves—
So what does that prove, shmoe?

Bad air! Who cares?
Bad air! Who cares?
Bad air! Who cares?
Bad air…!