Dear Amber,
you don't know me.
I'm a gambler and your biggest fan.
You can call me Wellington Wright.
And oh, Ms. Avalanche, I'd love to be your man.

I'm a descendant of the airplane pioneers.
That's how I came to find your line of work, my dear;
the famous contest: the Arctic Races,
and the champion polar pilot the
aerial angel, Amber Avalanche.

I bet a lot of money
on your crimson-colored aircraft
on this winter day last year,
a frigid rigid Valentine's Day.

You whistled through a frozen cave,
a missile through my chest would save
a bitten heart to thaw and bleed
smitten as you take the lead.

Ever since then, that February,
you know I've been proudly wearing,
that white feather badge upon my chest
that fell to the ground from your leather vest.

I forever follow the flights
of the beautiful Amber Avalanche,
and just like your winning record
my love for you is undefeated.

Ever since then, that February,
you know I've been proudly wearing,
that white feather badge upon my chest
that fell to the ground from your leather vest.

You whistled through a frozen cave,
a missile through my chest would save
a bitten heart to thaw and bleed
smitten as you take the lead.

I dream of us flying by turbines,
riding on mountain wakes
and taming the waves
of crowded blizzard clouds.

I've been grounded long enough.
I'll take flight and action.
The other racers can't seem to catch you
but planes aren't fueled by passion.