The pigeon, what a dull and beautiful bird
Living on the edge of the knife, unknowingly
Staring death in the face, daily
Threatened by man, beast and rapture
Does it know love, laughter or life?
Does it know fear, pain or strife?
Beautiful in its dullness
An object of fascination and detachment
Beauty is in the eye of the mundane

You smile idealistically
We talk like liberals and laugh like friends
Under lazy heat and ripe conversation
If only you could see the grey I could see
But then again, if I am the only one who can see it
I must be special

Dust and mud turn to fine red wine in your glass
Smooth surfaces and large mirrors to admire each other
Sunshine, nostalgia
And all pretty makeup
Words ebbing off your dry deadbeat tongue, so insatiable
A scene picturesque, idyllic
Boring

Enough of that jazz
Hey-oh, screeching viola's and Sanskrit texts
Urge me to prophecy
Our journey begins in a Kenyan airport
African night flight
Plane spiralling into a chasm
Until it crash lands in a dusty maroon desert
A barren wasteland
The locals grin a foolish grin
They want to eat me for dinner
(That's offensive, isn't it?)
(Well, if you think that's offensive, try this)
I'm a stormtrooper, I'm a ****
I can show you all the hate in the world
I have experienced hardships beyond belief
From my perfectly comfortable suburban dream
I have the window seat on every plane
And I use it to pretend to be lost in thought

Blitzkrieg hail pours in snarling squadrons
Down from the sky
Hand in pants, I play the fantasy in my head
The trick to this is that nothing is real
And nothing is personal
For if I could truly comprehend horror
Oh boy
I'm so glad ****'s aren't real