Different language, different skin
Makes flying a different thing
At the customs checking in
When eyes start flickering
The salesman sings out to me ”It’s made of wood
Make yourself understood”
He wants to sell a used and dirty soapbox
To stand on and share my thoughts
But the nails in this box are rusty and old
My shoes are new, my soul is cold
As we take off and trust these useful wings
I try to think of better things
Traveling with different name and skin
Next to me a man worn thin