₦Ø฿ØĐɎ'₴ ✩ ⱠØ₵₳Ⱡ ✩ ₮Ø₦ł₲Ⱨ₮

Frame Shift Drive's been waiting on a part,

the morning shuttle's running late.

The noodle stall has packed its pots,

then put out six more plates.

An astronaut in coveralls

feeds her kids a cold last fry.

The Solar Eclipse pulls the day off shift;

half the port's come outside.

Somebody drags a table over,

a deck of cards appears.

The courier asleep beside his case

has slept through two departures.

Nobody's local tonight,

everybody's got somewhere to be.

The Milky Way's on the departure board;

the next one's on me.

Nobody's local tonight,

the morning can wait its turn.

There are ships leaving every hour;

we've got one more night to burn.

There's a nebula tour at six;

the guide has sold the seats.

At one, the lounge goes free fall,

the cards float past our knees.

A kid catches one against her chest,

then deals another hand.

The first departure fills and goes;

we don't get up from our seats.

Nobody's local tonight,

everybody's got somewhere to be.

The Milky Way's on the departure board;

the next one's on me.

Nobody's local tonight,

the morning can wait its turn.

There are ships leaving every hour;

we've got one more night to burn.

The next one's on me.

The next one's on me.

Nobody's local tonight.