Fly On A Windshield

Fly On A Windshield

Genesis

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.

Back in N.Y.C

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