[[ Parts knocked together here for now, for safekeeping. It will be a song or a poem, maybe. ]]
Three fit ex-fighter pilots
from battleship states
packed their flavors of jesus,
their bulging instructions
for god, and shot themselves
into the sky to the place
where no up is, no down,
absolutely no air, so no sound,
and slipped round behind
the man in the moon,
nestled side by each, out of
sight for three quarters of
an hour looking down and
surveying the wreckage
while control held its breath.
When out from behind the
behind at last they came
and caught earth looking
back, relieved, the trio
prayed and took souvenir
shots of the blue ball
hanging in front of them.
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