There's a holiday, a street parade, you and I are locked away. If the motorbikes like flocks of birds are ruled by nature I couldn't say. Sundays we'd lie in bed and talk about airplanes. Walking up your telephone cries metallic tears and I don't care who it is, or which buildings falling. Cover your road side bed with leaves. I'm killing myself with kindness. Stand and listen to machines that speak our poetry, while a man buries life as death, this is his street side eulogy. Sundays we'd lie in bed and talk about airplanes. Walking up your telephone cries metallic tears and I don't care who it is, or which city is burning. Cover your road side bed with leaves. I'm killing myself with kindness. I don't care who it is or which cities falling. I don't care who it is, or which buildings burning.
credits
from Box of Baby Birds,
released January 1, 2006
Gary Calhoun James: Voice, guitars, piano, bass, bells, pianica, hand claps
Alance Ward: Drums, hand claps, percussion
Written, Recorded and Mixed by Gary Calhoun James
Mastered by Griffin Rodriguez