I know when it’s time to write , for when the starlings murumting rise and fall , and rise , then fall , then fall , and fall , their light skeletons frail , In many numbers they never found their wings , found dead upon the gravel. So the bird who has no shame swooped for his prey all the same , for down down did it lay , then up to a blue yonder .
As for us the sun will rise as we fly to bluer skies than sapplings wither and more will die , as we as birds must rise and fall , then rise , and find Gods rest as we retreat from the worlds thistle and worm.
So as the rabbit must flee from his Michelin chef , so must we from his rabbit stew , and burrow our way to pastures new , to a greener yonder .