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.