|
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 wing 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 shortwave radio
|
It's tracking outer rings.
|
|
The tectonic dispatcher shifts
|
To smooth the ocean floor
|
Of Brisbane's sunny shore.
|
Where buddas tend to mending wrists
|
Of eucalyptus fragrances
|
And coriander seeds.
|
|
You wake up in the morning
|
To warm Pacific breeze
|
Where mean cats chew on licorice
|
And cannot climb the trees.
|
|
Open the window
|
And lift into a dream
|
Baby, baby
|
Baby starts to breathe
|
|
|
|
-----------------
|
Parakeet
|
| R.E.M |
