Clean up the tank

This treasure can not be taken from me
I have certain things, thoughts
To hold on to

These are the things that
Drift away on the winds
And never return
They land gently on old playing fields
And on the backs of house cats

I am the son of a bitch
That stopped your valiant effort
To take back the night
In between the moon and New York City
Then I repossessed

He was found guilty of treason
A sandy-eyed bleach tank
A nostalgia driven vacation
Out to a desolate prairie
On the high wings of American Freedom
Choose your words lightly