While the Islanders run savage from the sticky coffee sun
my seeds are at a closing - we see different heavens
and I'm a traveler in this place - my hands manufactured to match my luggage
will you be a comrade? Quiet that little boy, could you?
Show him the air strip, wow him to d**h.
There are too many tickets
too many tickets left.
In the office they're counting
moving tickets on the monitor
and shuffling envelopes to the drums of my d**h march
I'm a soldier bloodied on the runway
treading gra** and checking my back
exiting in a blur of terror and hope.
The walkway is now ending please look down
the walkway is now ending please look down
look down
look down
look down