| «Do you mean the attack is routine?»
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| A bird asked of a bird
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| «In this context, a concave nest
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| How do we learn to hurt?»
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| «Do you mean there’s no variation?»
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| Watching a dog charge a flock
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| Of birds exploding in congregation
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| «Why plan when we stop?»
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| «I don’t know, but why suppose
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| It’s not the way it should be?
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| When you can fly above the great waiting list
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| As the crow implies we won’t be missed
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| We can leave, we can leave, we can leave»
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| It’s a routine flight for this bird tonight
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| There’s more worms than earth in the afterlife
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| Where the blind feed the blind
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| Whispering things like, «On the money» and «Bull's eye»
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| She picks up the little leaves
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| Where human wrecks are left to seed
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| Left to repaint their deities
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| And plaster away at their villainies
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| Where there’s love and there’s hope
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| «And do you hope those earthbound poets
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| Could learn to sing as good as us?
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| So we can sit back and enjoy our illusions
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| And our quietus?»
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| «Well, I don’t know, but why suppose
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| It’s not the way it should be?
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| When you can squawk and wait for word from above
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| And change yourself into something you love
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| When you leave, when you leave, you leave?» |