The Alien

The zeppelin of World War 3 just bought another pint of gasoline.
Sits in the background, watches the foreground.
Every day, he is a brand new poem.
He can't be read, 'cause he's always reading.
Some people are talking.
They don't even know him.
He won't sell his soul 'till the day that he dies.
Some people are talking.
Talk like they own him.
You're gonna be all right.
Freeze-dried!
You are going on a mission for the human race.
You chose to spend your last night on Earth with the people you cared about, and I'll never forget it.
I swear, that night, you had that wild, but firm, profoundly intense look in your eyes, like you were ready to lift off into the stratosphere, at any moment.
You knew that land was just a prison.
A prison with no guard, but gravity.
Through a twist of fate, found a way out.
Drill holes in the sky!
The wicked witch on East 4th Street has lost the entirety of her mind.
She burns her clothes in a butterfly pose, and feels the weight of every living thing that stumbles down the ground within a three mile radius of her haunted house.
The house is a mess, but there's room for a guest, if Edwin Hyde "just happened" to drop dead.
The other night, you had some crazy dream, and it all went up. Up-up!
Now everything I've ever done, and everyone I've ever loved,
and every song I ever wrote, and every fortune I didn't tell,
and every zeppelin I didn't sell, and every lie I didn't catch,
and every UFO I didn't lay looks bitter, and dull, and devoid of all flavor.
But you can fly.
To the mermaid parade, or the merman brawl, or bashing my head into the wall.
Or the mystery air at the start of Fall. There's something burning inside us all.
Band names in a bathroom stall will always be prisoners to space and time.
You can fly.
Up! Up, up! Up! Up, up! Up! Up.