Dents and burn holes
On old rusted scraps
And moth-eaten seats
In the hot metal stacks
Mustangs piled a mile high
Scale to the top and sit in the sky
The sun rays are killer
We sit, and you sigh
We forgot your red shirt
And Jack...I can fly
With a stale wind whipping
'Cross our worn dusted faces
We swung down from the car doors
And removed all our traces
- Elizabeth Beesley