Flying Out Of The Nest

Imploding concepts of internal turmoil 
As to the saying that stands, that goes 
Fighting one's own demons "fair fight not"

Cross roads are perpetual obstacles we have to face 
Decisions and choices all with their own inclined 
Small print of reasoning being that a justification is included 

So for the force-able future, that is just a given 
Customarily a grace period is ushered, as grace 
As ways to ease one in, into a role played "capulet oh thy Romeo" 

A manual then; the fools guide to indie rock 
As thus this is, to cover the basics, holding hands 
Past that eventuality "safety nets", you would have to rely 

On instinct and hope they are right 
Life lessons teaches as to live with 
The blown out fuse, as experiences gained 

When at that point the small print becomes 
So vividly clear, salvage brushes off, dirty on cloths 
Bruises as accolades to testament of  time 

And we walk on by
Walk on by, walk on by 
And we walk on by 

Ducks Can't Fly

If birds had feathers they will not hang  
On grills, spiced up, roasting aroma 
Feeling the air, with juice  


My taste bud, ready to engage  
Consumed, my lips left with evidence  
Of my indulgence   


If birds have feathers 
Oh but they do   
Well before being unplugged   


Oh but they do  
If birds had feathers to fly 
They would not hang on grills


For they will know to fly 
And not walk, or run, slow enough 
To be caught, by the man with no feather 

Rains on the Crow

Close to discovery, stood in rains  
Like the crow on door knocks  
Awaiting stages to shine on  


Conditions on forces, do conspire  
To be left with the crucifix of perception  
Warmongering on fearful instinct,  against on reaction 


If only the crow had feathers so bright 
Like the parrot, like the birds of paradise 
To be given a platform in rooms 


So adored, delighted, on worship  
Hanged at the best spot, for all to see
Talked about, like the dolphin's prestige 


But not so says, was it to be 
Fearmongering on instinct
Perception had t' judges jumping off their skin 


It is the stories, from before as told   
The cinema clips projected, propaganda  
That holds the blame, as with t' books of history told


If only the director did pick another
Just not the crow, just not the crow
But another, just not the crow, Gothic, raven  


Left to stand in the rain 
Denied its rightful place of intelligence hold 
Darkness of it's feathers, hides its drench