Plane to California

Enemy.
Asleep with me.
Shoot the sheets
and turn the breeze.
Industry.
Smoking me.
Shoot the sheets
and turn the breeze.
We’re going to fly away
on a plane to California
on a summer day.
Eighty-degrees.
The knees.
Shoot the sheets
and turn the breeze.
I thought I knew you well, though.
You know I knew you well.