I am in flight, into the night, with wings not hands, over marching bands.
And now I see, rapid yet complete, mistakes of the past: an ugly story
And then, on Wednesday, I careen, explode!
The onlookers say: "God bless his soul"
And it was such absurdity, she sings so sweetly, holds my hand, and ends it neatly.
Angels and vultures manned crafts, lost control, stories got old.