Colour my beat with some sense of the heat and walk in my streets for a day.
I'll show you some way to escape, though some say, we are trapped.

There's a hole in the side of present time, so let's
hide before somebody comes,
and the night
wishes a tune as we fly to the moon and the sun strikes a pose in the sky.

If I do I will be and all that I see becomes me in the measure of men, and to compete in the beat of the street in the heat is a rite.
I sit tight to the rails that take me on trains through the veils of the mystery mile, if I try, I could smile, I could weep, I could sleep, I will keep this countenance low, who's to know who's a spy and if when we do fly, who reports the escapees to whom.

On a partridge farm, down South, with a cartridge in his mouth is a farmer, his name is unknown, he's been given the task and his not to ask, to shoot all the prisoners at dawn,
born to die, escape to fly, the artist picks paint off the floor and the door's firmly shut but a crack in the planking lets a little tight light in and the sun strikes a pose in the sky.