Through the rain and all the clutter
Under the Fremont Bridge, I saw a pigeon fly
Fly in fear from a [bad word] to take its life

And as it closed in for the capture
I funneled the fear through my ancient eye
To see in flight what I know are the bitter mechanics of life

Under my hat it reads, "The lines are all imagined"
fact of life I know to hide from my little girls
I know my place amongst the bugs and all the animals
And it’s from these ordinary people you are longing to be free

In my hotel, on the TV
preacher on a stage like a buzzard cries
Out a warning of phony sorrow; he’s trying to get a rise

The cyanide of an almond
Let him look at your hands, get the angles right
Ace of spades, port of morrow, life is death is life

I saw a photograph of Cologne in ’27
And then a postcard after the bombs in ’45
Must have been a world of evil clowns that let it happen
But now I recognize, dear listeners
That you were there, and so was I

Under my hat I know the lines are all imagined
fact of life I must impress on my little girls
I know my place amongst the creatures in the pageant
And there are flowers in the garbage
And a skull under your curls