The little black planes hang in the atmosphere
With a streamline bodies and painted stars
They do not shift in place
Only roar forward in perfect formation

Up that high they do not see
The scurrying people below them
They only see the shells that fall
From underneath their straightedge hulls

They come from a land where bombs never fall
Where tyranny has been pushed away
They cut through the sky that is blue just like theirs
Only this sky is over the Fatherland

Does that make this sky any less bright?
They may wonder while keeping eyes glued to yonder
And most shake their head ‘Yes’ and respond
To this question quite positively that
The Patriot’s sky glimmers more lazuli