Terminals Songtext

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