Before the wounded gates of time,
the surging crowd looks like a fight.
Lips like glue...hearts frozen.
Jacob's ladder's long been broken.
Eagle eyed, they're locked in flight.

Home atlast, the prodigals
stamp their feet on welcome mats.
A smoke or two, a scotch and dry.
Cross their hearts and hope to die.
Deals are brokered; info faxed.

Domesticity is photo'd.
Everyone is so laid back.
Outside a storm is brewing.
But they swear its not their doing.
T-bones sizzle on the rack.