Something is inside the rain,
Like tiny Kamikaze pilots,
Plopping on the window pane,
Fading in prisms from reds to violets,

The brave little fliers congregate,
Without a thought to run or hide,
From their chosen fate to precipitate,
In synchronized mini-mass suicide,

They plummet to a graceful death,
Not questioning where they are falling,
And in one calm and final breath,
They can hear eternal honor calling,

The aviators all compete
For this high esteem they will attain,
Then they are crushed beneath our feet
And met with raincoats and damp disdain.