A Widow's Toast

Specters move like pilot flames Their widow’s toast It's Saint-Angel Better times collide with now The tears were warm I feel them still Their heat to vapor and disperse And cloud our eyes with weary glaze You raise your gla*s and may exclaim "I’ll put my hands on the truth, by God!" But it’s 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 widow’s toast It's Saint-Angel And better times collide with now And better times And better times are coming still