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Brown Bird
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The Messenger
There are fleeting fits of reason between the sleeping and the drinks
When a million different sensory experiences blink
And is there within the moment tearing darkness you can breathe
They have form without reflection or debris
There are bloody bouts of tenderness against the bounds of few
Fixing combat everlasting; vultures circled ever near
And now they're placing bets deciding who will be the first to feast
They can flood the battled filled with songs and mead
Barrel-chested bankers buying billboards by the score
Placing all their eggs in baskets made a future funeral
Now their children fight in [?], mirrors of their gain
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And the messenger will always be to blame
There are centuries of seasons turning white to green to brown
Cycling through each solar sequence, turning temperaments around
This incessant spinning ceases, making dizzy all our days
We'll succumb to something stranger anyway
To some disaster of a disorientating breaking day
Barrel-chested bankers buying billboards by the score
Placing all their eggs in baskets made a future funeral
Now their children fight in [?], mirrors of their gain
And the messenger will always be to blame
Yeah, the messenger will always be to blame
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