With all the sirens I unwittingly had stepped above it,
the yellow ribbon meant to keep us out.
The helicopter overhead getting the footage of it,
the broken window he had hurdled through.
They said that he was split in two.
They said that he was split in two.
I couldn’t help but stand for a few minutes, fantasizing
as all the crewmen swept his suitcase out:
a healthy social life and a career in advertising.
I snuck away with both his tennis shoes.
They said that he was split in two.
They said that he was split in two.
I tried them on as soon as I stepped through the door that evening,
a conversation piece to chat about it.
Where they come from, I myself still have some trouble believing.
I hope they do a better job of keeping my feet true.
They said that he was split in two.
They said that he was split in two.
Go back to “Secret Weapon”.