Mister Palomar is lost in his thoughts
He sees the world as a touchscreen
A web he can't configurate
Nothing beneath the surface of things
Using starlings to measure the sky
Loves his butterflies pinned with tacks
Feels the ocean through his eyes
Mister Palomar thinks that truth is fact
Rats in the streets, moral decay
The finest cheese and his potted plants
All playthings of his philosophy
Mere fuel for reason's sycophant
Beach-sand littered with society's wreck
Waves within waves impossible math
His mind stays trapped above his neck
While seagulls scream like psychopaths
Mister Palomar is lost in his thoughts
He sees the world as a touchscreen
A web he can't quite configurate
Nothing beneath the surface of things
He feels nothing beneath the surface of things
Nothing beneath the surface of things