Imperial March

Sailing up into the glorious atmosphere of being
Away from the bland-suit cityscapes and the stench of the dying breed
Our greys now replaced by yellows and blues
There is an exodus all around us
One person, following another, attached to air
Ill-tempers dissipate through our achievement of freedom
It is our imperial march into the heavens
So that we leave our trials reeking discretely below us
Down there amongst the gloom-merchants and death-dealers
Up here, we are the children of our own star-making universe