I could stare all day at disintegrating cabins
Almost hear the stories of crusty miners blabbing
It's a blast from the past on the edge of perverse
Like what they call progress, but only in reverse

Some would say that it's idealic
It's a psychedelic mining relic

Considering the dangers of toxic heavy metals
Carried by the wind as the pile slowly settles
It's no wonder that most miners were totally insane
Since that's the way these chemicals act upon the brain