That great silver god, Jet Plane, has beckoned me to Odyssean choices, I'm leaving the war to journey to a new forever, an old forever replayed with a more accurate focus on the moment. Giving it all away like alms to the beggars, like rice to the aesetics. Taking me and my eyes to new vision, to agrarian hauntings, the fields of an old war, with old ideas looking for new men to preach to. The new shaman in the old south. The old gun in the old east. I was golden fleeced by the wind and the smell of the fall, hoodwinked by orange and brown, too long has the misty October fog hypnotized me and kept me from the ships and the journeys. So beckon me great and powerful Jet Plane, I will answer the call, raise me from this misty fog, raise me to have vision yet again.