Exploding international, the scenes, the sounds, and famously the feeling that you can't squeeze ground, while tearing off another page of loose change outrage. Its another perfect day until the night shows. Exploding international, the wind did howl. The sky above was thick with rings of smoke and clouds, and hanging on the bleeding end of conscious, who's this? Was there anything I missed, as far as you know? Was it all for swinging you around? Exploding international, the sun, the sights, the moments you are viewing through a beam of light, propel you through the golden age. We crash-land the first page on a crumbling world stage, into the front rows. All for swinging you around. And off your feet, all the love you found, spinning ground. We're twisting incognito with no time, can't talk, can't tell if this is fantasy or culture shock, or remnants of a golden age that's near mint unplayed, or a welcome overstayed beneath the lightshow. All for swinging you around.
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"All for Swinging You Around" as written by Carl Allan Newman
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