Crew of the Lucky Seven

Engines hum. They sound like prayers. Cass is yelling. Smoke's in the

air. Rivets blowing, oh. That's bad, oh,

that's bad. Sarin's calm. She's always mad. Weary chasing dreams through cosmic dust.

A holy quest or maybe just a paycheck late, a plan gone wrong.

So I wrote this stupid song. We don't crash. We land mostly fine.

We don't crash. Patch the hole and pour the wine. Stars explode but

we still shine. We're the crew of the Lucky Seven. Through heaven's fire

and demon's gate. Weary, fashionably late. But we'll make it,