In three beats times two,
My wings, they grew and grew,
Jutting forth feathers -
Whose home are my limbs.
With golden tips,
I fingered the sky;
No soil could be greater than the mighty oxygen above.
Steady pace was fly,
And fly some more.
Against all odds,
Ten thousand parachutes waged war.
Man stopped by one day,
To tell me he could fashion air,
And that to breathe-
The sky could no longer fare.
Through toil and strife,
I bled-
So as he plucked my feathers-
I could be light,
And continue,
On my glorious flight.
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