I took an air-rifle, shot a magpie to the ground & it died without a sound.
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Your skin so pale against the fallen Autumn leaves &
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no-one saw us but the trees.
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Yeah, the trees, those useless trees produce the air that I am breathing.
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Yeah, the trees, those useless trees; they never said that you were leaving.
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I carved your name with a heart just up above - now swollen,
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distorted, unrecognisable; like our love.
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The smell of leaf mould & the sweetness of decay
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are the incense at the funeral procession here, today.
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In the trees, those useless trees, etc.
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You try to shape the world to what you want the world to be.
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Carving your name a thousand times won't bring you back to me.
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Oh no, no I might as well go & tell it to the trees.
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Go & tell it to the trees, yeah.
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-----------------
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The Trees
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| Pulp |
