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I’m in a tin tube. Inside a sun spot.
Above the mountains high.
The burn of water. The fist of white noise.
The shake and throttling.
I’m in a tin tube. There’s no controlling.
Take what they’re giving me.
I’ve got my big books. They will distract me from thoughts of falling down.
I’m in a tin tube. Breathe through the same lung.
That’s me inside your mouth.
And every small field looks like a country.
Another question mark.
I’m in a tin tube. The heads are smiling.
As wine and bread moves by.
I’m in a tin tube. You’re in a building.
You check your watch again.
And up above you my ears are popping.
I hear the landing gear...
Jim Walker - Guitars, Keyboards, Percussion, Vocals
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