Sitting, laughing at the mindless humanoids croaking in their swarm.
While recalling Omar Khayyam. How we changed there in the holy sun high on holding hands.
The pilot crashed with Rupert Brooke they blew together fast on other levels.
He spoke, softly, opened by the wine. A father pushing fear and looking for redemption.
Someone hurry he thought as the waves rolled their way through concentration.
It's all too much he seemed to want to say but could not make the necessary juncture.
How he loved the lady by my side. Rococo lady, daughter of the African the westernized.
He is searching for a hole to be in to make himself.
How we changed there in the holy sun high on holding on.
You might be different, I can read it in your sign,
You, you might be something, I can read it in your eyes.