Whitney

Singers dream of home, Arenas are lonely places, even wearing cotton, we glide across the night, that really is our fame, how the world seems bright, heaven to look upon, the scent of our grace, we shine like polished stones, from summer nights, or gas fired winter cafe's, how different is our flight, that path ahead unknown, carried on buttered waves, to wash our fierce aplomb, waiters glow in fairy lights, carry cognac to our table, orange gold in artifice, through a mirrored pane.