35

A gasoline sky just begs for a spark
Don't go looking at me like that
It's an oil-soaked canvas painting
Just waiting on a match

Sure there are billions, nay trillions of stars
Little pinpricks of fire in the dark
But they don't excite, because they don't ignite
They'll never hold human hearts

A gasoline sky just begs for a match
A tumultuous yellow-tinged flame
Not far distant white, with their icy light
Not moonbeams silhouetting in gray

It's deep and it's dark, just begs to be burned
The perfume of it's oily bouquet
Lulls us to sleep, and that's all that keeps
Us from bringing our matches to play

A gasoline sky is a damp, cold parade
The show catches our breath in our throats
But though we applaud, we think it a fraud
For it doesn't take place in the light.

A gasoline sky is a vast sneaking thief
It's aroma keeps goodness at bay
For what prowls in the night, is seldom delight
To beings who live in the day.

And then morning comes, and gasoline runs
For what else can night do when faced with the sun?