You wake up in the morning And fall out of your bed Mean cats eat parakeets And this one's nearly dead. You dearly wish the wind would shift And greasy windows slide Open for the parakeet Who's colored bitter lime.
Open the window And lift into your dreams Lately, baby You can barely breathe.
A broken wrist An accident You know that something's wrong You fold the leavings of your past No one knows you've gone. The sunspot flares of the early Nineties light up your wings. And scan the shotwave radio It's tracking outer rings.
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