I tell him that I want to skip
To the coda, to what comes after
The age of white men; after, one by one

The satellites drop from the sky
And you can no longer see me
You can no longer hide the past

Although Andrews change from Jacksons to
Garfields, animals drop from millions
To hundreds and I want to
Skip to the coda now,

To the beautiful promise of a new tomorrow
As the stars pass in front of my eyes
And my friends do, too

Until the moon is all that is left,
That beautiful bird.