From a plane it looks like a knife
Like the knife that took young Terry’s life
After a rain it smells like fish sticks
Boys leaping off into the Little Mystic
Connected to the mother by a tiny stream
The archives burn in a collective dream
All the myths, they trump statistics
Boys leaping off into the Little Mystic
And shivering by the side of the road
Were they waving goodbye, or waving hello?
Salt pyramids and drying grass
Up on the rail, and off you go
Del’s apron’s property of The Food Bazaar
He shadows a man who can’t find his car
Row by row somnambulistic
Boys leaping off into the Little Mystic
Saddled with four grocery bags
Concentrating on the delts and lats
All his thoughts are futuristic
Boys leaping off into the Little Mystic
Holly works at the sub shop all day on her feet
Then they walk down dryer vent scented streets
Del swears he not cold, she wears icy lipstick
Boys leaping off, they’re leaping off

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