Up in the calloused skyway I listen for grinding gears go by my way.
I have a dedicated line.
And in the back room, bleeding, I, unexpected, find, in piles,
old machines waiting to expire.
An accountant’s dream of flesh and fire.
I’m calling to get money wired.
Years on, and you hum another’s love song,
thinking I wouldn’t notice, but I noticed.
Love and loss lie at my side in the backyard grass
where I lose my eyes as airships go by.
Accountants dream of flesh and fire
while I’m calling to get money wired.
Hall of Records 