Fly On a Windshield
There's Something Solid Forming in the Air,
The Wall of Death Is Lowered in Times Square.
No-one Seems to Care,
They Carry On As If Nothing Was There.
The Wind Is Blowing Harder Now,
Blowing Dust Into My Eyes.
The Dust Settles On My Skin,
Making a Crust I Cannot Move In
And I'm Hovering Like a Fly, Waiting For the Windshield On the Freeway.
