That wind, like death, will swoop down from above
And smash up cities, all their tombs and all their towers.
That wind will scatter aircraft, like cake crumbs,
From off the tattered sky-blue tablecloth.
Bird leaders summon flocks for one last roll call.
The tortured birds will answer one last time but barely,
No more obsessed with the need to migrate,
And so they fall
Go crashing down to earth.

Why must we know just when that wind will come?
It's not as though we make our prophets heroes.
Although we've all acquired wise philosophies
As well, of course, as plastic credit cards.
By now our leaders have all found themselves places.
And cups of acid free, decaffeinated coffee
And artificial orange juice in boxes
Await us all
At any airport.

It's not important where, if there's a roof above.
A good exchange rate doesn't hurt either.
For any place on Earth they issue visas,
And every place the hotel beds are soft.
And if the birds cry out in pain we do not hear them.
Though sometimes, for no cause, we're seized with terror.
But there's a cure for that. Turn on the TV
And watch a horror show
To help you sleep.