The Ballad of Bent Metal and Whispered Words

The morning mist on Patapsco's tide, Where Francis Scott Key's steel bones lie. A cargo giant, lost in the night, Struck the pylon with all its might. A rumble, then a groan, then sighs, A broken necklace in the skies. The searchlights dance upon the grey, For souls the river swept away. Oh, the headlines turn, the seasons fade, Another story for the trade. Of metal bent and words unsaid, The living mourn and count the dead.

It's the same old song, a new refrain, Sung in the sun and in the rain. Up in the air, a different fall, A panel ripped from a fuselage wall. The wind came screaming through the plane, A story of profit, stress, and strain. So the boss at Boeing takes a bow, Says 'I'll be leaving sometime now.' A house built fast on shaky ground, Will always, always tumble down. Oh, the headlines turn, the seasons fade, Another story for the trade.

Of metal bent and words unsaid, The living mourn and count the dead. It's the same old song, a new refrain, Sung in the sun and in the rain. In a quiet hall, nine figures sit, To argue what is right and fit. Of whispers in the wires they speak, Who holds the truth the strong and weak? The government hand, a gentle nudge, Becomes the censor and the judge. They draw new lines for what is true, A story old, but feeling new.

They build their towers to the sun, With pride and steel 'til the work is done. They chart their course and cast their votes, On hopeful prayers and sinking boats. But water flows and bolts come loose, And every truth becomes a truce. Oh, the headlines turn, the seasons fade, Another story for the trade. Of metal bent and words unsaid, The living mourn and count the dead. It's the same old song, a new refrain, Sung in the sun and in the rain.