Songs of Bird (inglês)

By strangulation, his bird voice lost a tone

His head spun through and was exposed downtown

"What a shame! What a shame!", all of them sung

His feathers and his guitar, all of them gone

A pride he defiantly carried longer than life

Now it could be better that he'd learn the knife

Or another art by the sea, and the high pitched fife

That everyone plays when it all comes down to rife strife

Then the stormy cloud could pass through, he thought,

I'd have another reason, another one vapid sought,

Another thousand years of life joyously bought

Older now at heart, but instilled then in youth, it ought!

But the grand boat crashed, and the steamy train left

Horizon wide sprang the trails, carrying gold but theft

And it would be miles of a crushing and cursing sun cleft

Home away, not so older, as he said, nor younger with heft

"Sunken are the grasslands, ain't no land here for the vagabond!",

Cried with a mouth the lady who smiled at first, losing no second

But there was no strength in his arms, in him no drop of a rogue

As he stepped in the way the rouge wagon gone, in ways wound

Laying here and there in between rocks may deal with the fever

Or it could be the venomous drink of the divine wine's believer

Or it would turn lonelier without the dizziness, and not a reliever

Yet, this certain feeling, that he could rest and dye the land forever

Yet, this certain feeling...

His bird songs, oh, his bird songs!