Oh, give me a locus where the gravitons focus
	Where the three-body problem is solved,
	Where the microwaves play down at three degrees K,
	And the cold virus never evolved.			(chorus)
We eat algea pie, our vacuum is high,
	Our ball bearings are perfectly round.
	Our horizon is curved, our warheads are MIRVed,
	And a kilogram weighs half a pound.			(chorus)
If we run out of space for our burgeoning race
	No more Lebensraum left for the Mensch
	When we're ready to start, we can take Mars apart,
	If we just find a big enough wrench.			(chorus)
I'm sick of this place, it's just McDonald's in space,
	And living up here is a bore.
	Tell the shiggies, "Don't cry," they can kiss me goodbye
	'Cause I'm moving next week to L4!			(chorus)

CHORUS:	Home, home on LaGrange,
	Where the space debris always collects,
	We possess, so it seems, two of Man's greatest dreams:
	Solar power and zero-gee sex.
		-- to Home on the Range