Written in June 1993

He walks down the halls With his radar eyes He locks on his target and His target dies. With a tilt of his shoulder He banks as he turns And he secretly grins as His target burns. And people think he's strange And people think he's odd But he's a real pilot, by god! And he's learned to survive His arms no longer wings Yes, the boy's still alive And only he hears the Wind in his struts sing. When he was a child he'd roam With outstretched arms and His fingers would twinkle with cannon-fire And the shock-waves from the bombs Would rattle his wings. And his playmates scoffed And thought him deranged; They laughed and they teased him And went back to their games. But he persevered, and said "OK! Fine! I'll just play this wonderful game in my mind!" And the 50 millimeter chatter stopped And the bombs made no sound as they dropped; And the wings were retracted, except in his head And none of his targets even know that they're dead. And people think he's strange And people think he's odd But he's a real pilot, by god! And he's learned to survive His arms no longer wings Yes, the boy's still alive And only he hears the Wind in his struts sing. And he might be your boss, and He might be your neighbor He might be your father Or maybe your Savior But if he is you I have one thing to say: Thank you my friend For making my day!