Harry Chapin (1980)

Falling thirty thousand feet, there's one for every pound
Of yellow skins your four-wheel-drive has smashed into the ground
(Now your voice makes an echo before mine can make a sound)
I call you from the watchtower as my rifle finds its aim
Between your eyes a dripping spot and which of us to blame?
(And you or me will live forever vagrant in our fame)
You send me yellow roses through the quaver in the air
But by the time I get the message you're no longer there
(If I'm an extra you're a star and both of us are spares)

This was written a year before Chapin's death.

Copyright 1980 Offworld Press
May not be reproduced without permission

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