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While the Islanders run savage from the sticky coffee sun my seeds are at a closing - we see different heavens and I'm a traveler in this place - my hands manufactured to match my luggage will you be a comrade? Quiet that little boy, could you? Show him the air strip, wow him to death. There are too many tickets too many tickets left. In the office they're counting moving tickets on the monitor and shuffling envelopes to the drums of my death march I'm a soldier bloodied on the runway treading grass and checking my back exiting in a blur of terror and hope. The walkway is now ending please look down the walkway is now ending please look down look down look down look down Aus Songtexte Mania