Fly on a Windshield

There's something solid forming in the air And the wall of death is lowered in Times Square No one seems to care They carry on as if nothing was there The wind is blowing harder now Blowing dust into my eyes The dust settles on my skin Making a crust I cannot move in And I'm hovering like a fly, waiting for the windshield on the freeway Echoes of The Broadway Everglades With their mythical madonnas still walking in their shades: Lenny Bruce declares a truce and plays his other hand Marshall McLuhan, casual viewing, head buried in the sand Sirens on the rooftops wailing, but there's no ships sailing Groucho, with his movies trailing, stands alone with his punchline failing Ku Klux Klan serve hot soul food and the band plays In the Mood The cheerleader waves her cyanide wand There's a smell of peach blossom and bitter almond Caryl Chessman sniffs the air, and leads the parade He knows, in a scent, you can bottle what you made There's Howard Hughes in blue suede shoes Smiling at the Majorette, smoking Winston cigarettes And as the song and dance begins, the children play at home With needles Needles and pins