This is a story, some kind of a story
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this is a story about about a boy and girl,
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a girl and a boy, a boy.
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[?] only fighting.
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that some boy in the dark while he learned to evolve
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inverted crystal mountain kind of a story.
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this is a story
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man, about the serifs and ciphers that the scholars deciphered
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translations of sanskrit
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just as my handwritten story.
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this is a story
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where the singers begin to appear
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in the spaces between all the dashes and braces
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in the mothbitten story - of getting left behind.
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this is a story
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some kind of a story.
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with the pages distressed sins you held to your chest,
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they were mangled and dog eared, while the rest were just mangy and gory.
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this is a story about the memory of water
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translating the sound of the traffic.
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remember the traffic?
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it's making you carsick all along southfield freeway.
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and translating mistakes and the trees were mistaken
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and the trees for the woods and the sound of the trash
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for the sound of the blowing leaves along the southfield freeway.
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my name is a blackbird, this is a two tone.
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feathers are warm in molasses,
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twisting the words from the solids to gases.
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now I don't have worry (of making it)
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it's so unclear.
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am I dead or am I dying
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or am I simply tired of crying?
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my name is a blackbird, this is a two tone.
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feathers are warm in molasses,
|
twisting the words from the solids to gases.
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now I don't have worry (of making it)
|
it's so unclear.
|
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am I dead or am I dying
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or am I simply tired of crying?
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my name is a blackbird.
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-----------------
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The Trees Were Mistaken
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Andrew Bird |