Our love is owned by the sky yours has fifty stars bowing to me on a limp flag That I wish upon as you kiss me goodbye. I watch her in a sea of brake lights disappearing from my life again their is no poetry being lived anymore it died on exit thirty three. My lips have not dried yet from her last kiss their were about ten of them but we always fought goodbyes until tannoys cut the swathe of our lips. Soon Spring will die in October and I'll go and weep with trees carving your name as an epitaph where we fell with apple blossom hiding from Gods eye as aeroplanes left scars to remind us both of sky. God has blessed America and I have cursed God for I am a son of England ill educated and too limited to be Americas orphan. What will become of us? Is our love the envy of God? It seems to me that dreams to me lay in rubber stamps in consulates for true love needs a visa issued by a tin man on a yellow brick road to nowhere. Can you choose whom you love? can you choose where they live? English love needs a degree for America and all I have is never enough, so I will be reminded forever that I was just a curious accent who if married could work at Walmart with the 'little people' singing Ku Ku Kuracha.