We travellers on the endless wastes in single orbits,
Gliding cold-eyed march towards the dawn behind
Hard-weather hoods a-hiding.
Meeting as the tall ships do, passing in the channel
Afraid to chance a gentle touch - afraid to make the
Clasp
In high-rise city canyons dwells the discontent of
Ages, On ring roads, nose to bumper crawl
Cummuters In their cages. Cryptic signals flash
Across from pilots in the fast lane. Double-locked
And belted in - too late to make the Clasp.
Lets break the journey now on some lonely road.
Sit down as strangers will, let the stress unload
Talk in confidential terms, share a dark unspoken
Fear.
Refill the cup and drink it up. Say goodnight
And wish good luck.
Synthetic chiefs with frozen smiles holding unsteady
Courses.
Grip the reins of history, high on their battle horses.
And meeting as good statesmen do before the T.V.
Eyes of millions, hand to hand exchange the lie
Pretend to make the Clasp.
Writer(s): Ian Anderson
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