A Widow's Toast

Specters move like pilot flames
Their widows toast
It's Saint-Angel

Better times collide with now
The tears were warm
I feel them still

They'll heat to vapor and disperse

And cloud our eyes with weary glaze

You raise your glass and may exclaim
"Ill put my hands on the truth by God "

But its faster love than you and me

Faster than the speed of gravity

That's how it catches you from falling

And how it always always always slips away

Specters move like pilot flames
Their widows toast
It's Saint-Angel

And better times collide with now
And better times

And better times are coming still