The finches and sparrows build nests in my chimney
what remains of the small flightless birds that you failed to protect

but their yolk isn't easy in fact it's a drag
as they're blowing through cornfields and mountains of rags

all over the suburbs
across the great lawns
crop-dusting gardens all over this town

but nobody cares when it gets in their hair
it gets in their lungs as it floats through the air
it gets in the food that they buy and prepare
but nobody cares when it gets in their hair

across the great chasms and schisms
and the sudden aneurisms
where the black ink will drip
across the crespice of your
eyes and your teeth
are worth more than you can spare
oh don't tell me that it just isn't fair
don't speak about the cycles of life
'cause your thoughts are so soft
I could cut 'em with a spork or a bride's knife

and the wine made our mouths too loose
such a reckless choice of words
when you tell me that I'm too [bad word] I just thought it was a kind of bird
I just stood there not saying a word