The red and white lid of the first aid box

Lay in the waste of the lifeguard’s hut

That was the only damage that I could see

From the cinnamon journey

Others had reported damage

But they were dead and beyond care

Only I cared enough to ask questions about the incident

On page three hundred and eighty-two of the town guide

There was a photograph of an angel that had lost its wings

That was the only clue that I possessed

So I stole a super tanker in an effort to hunt this angel down

Each day I undressed a seagull but all I found were their vacant stares

And then at night I retired to my don caster bed

Where I constructed microphones until the dawn was mild and clear