It must have been September eleventh in Sting's italian castle
When he and a band of virgin-loving bombers let some music
Into the air; some fiery music it was.
The passengers in ecstatic chorus, audible or not
Played no hand in deafening the final verse,
Sang to the motions of the conductor in the cockpit.
Sting, sporting his somber face, adviced the crowd to follow suit,
Playing a notch less livelier than if only he
Made music that musical day.
It will never be played the same way
After that musical day.
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