hunted by a freak

Mogwai

A bullet of sunlight pierces the clouds
golden heaven touches ground
I see that childhood toy that hangs
above the crib and spins around
Except it is suspended from a golden yellow sky
With paper mache animals and gargoyles hoisted from it
The golden Porsche makes its way up a Great Plains highway
Glaring sunlight from its grill
We never get a glimpse but there is the suspense
Of being hunted by a freak