A transcontinental glance,
from a messiah in his blue suede pants.
Sing daddy sing,
and ride the star that made the dream.
What is there is not for us to see,
but for us unseen is what soon shall be.
So, count your cards and bluff the builder,
who made the strain that one day kills her.
Build a bomb to bomb the wrong,
while the cricket plays his same sad song.
Yesterday has gone away,
to help tomorrow die, that’s what they say.
Or said the queen who helped the rabbit,
shoot back up that same old habit.
And in the end all things will die,
glitter and fade like the empty sky.