I fly through masses of people,
Bashing within the fluffy clouds.
The slight perception of the refreshing breeze,
Rushing along with the swing of concerning freebees.
From Russia to Spain,
From Sweden to Africa.
Trifle beats the feats of special vast gone fluff.
Such has vanished into the long-gone zephyr.
Y’all say that I am drunk.
And that this is a piece of junk.
Well, y’all ’may be right,
And yet my passion hasn’t shrunk.