On the Edge

On the edge with a gold coin in my pocket.
On the edge with a gold poem in my pocket.
I can tell this air ain’t fresh,
I can tell this air ain’t right.
Jim didn’t know what treachery meant.
We can say to our kids,
“the skies were blue.”
It took me days to fly home
and everything was better.
An image of you,
an image of me,
in a cabin for three at the end of the world.
I will imitate a Lyrebird
and you can play me a David’s song.