R.I.P Jon EggingRed wings,Number four,A brave man,With us no more.A man missed,A man lost,A man with talent,A man loved.A man whose job,Was in the public eye,His talent,Bringing joy to our lives.Flight lieutenant,Number four,Jon Egging,Unfortunately with us no more.R.I.P. Jon Egging
Of a greedy generationWe all have enoughYet we all want moreThis obsessive greedinessThat leads us to warSomeone has that! Oh I want it too,One's not enough- how about two?Look, look! She has that as wellMother darling- can I have one too?What's wrong with us all?This desire for more forced upon a child?Can you not see the damage that does?Wanting more, yet not having enoughWe move from material to that of emotional,There sits a child on a dirty street,All alone, with nothing to eat,Can you not see the yearning in his face,The burning want for a family?Yet there you stand wanting more,You the child who already has it all.Fast
Tape measure and hipsA porcelain frame shaking,Her fingertips quaking as she pulls the material tight,Numbers growing, red and black,The material taut so it can't be slackHer head bows as she tries to seeHave the numbers changed? Can it finally be?Finally she says, with a number that small, no one can call me fat anymore.
Let the charade play the part it has to playLet her keep her counsel,Let her keep her hate,Let her keep those tears that keep her up so late.Let her pull those corners up,Let the smile be raised,Let the charade play the part it has to play.Let her sit there by herself,Let the girl sit all alone,The place where loneliness can be her only home.