Seven-thirty-seven leaves the ground
I’m airborne, I’m flying, driving in the clouds
Past a flock of American made birds
On their way to protect the friendly skies
Tip your wing to the taxpayers on the ground
The cost of your wing could save a family
The cost of the other could educate my sons
The price we pay to be free is not cheep
The price we pay to be American sheep
Cities look like circuit boards from up here
Roads are data paths and cars are packet filled
People are data bits, working in teams of bytes
Information flows through departmental words
To networks of working through the night, but
Up here everything is floating on a big white cloud
People moving, being shuffled to someplace else
The price we pay to be the best at last
The price we pay as we watch life fly past
Never got to watch my son grow to a man
Never noticed when my little girl moved on
Never saw the American dreamer wake up
My son’s a man, daughter’s gone, and I’m awake
The price I paid took me too far away
The price I paid is the way it is today

© 1997 Tim D. Coulter Sr.