Peter Gabriel

Ten coaches roll into the dust, chrome windows turned to rust.
Hang on inside, they know they must, hanging on the green-backed words
In God We Trust.
No one knows if the spirit died, all wrapped to go like Kentucky Fried,
Trying to read the flight of birds, low on fuel, getting low on words.
And she comes out like a white shadow,
She comes out like a white shadow.
Each one drawn to empty spaces, outsiders, borderline cases.