It never escapes me, the fact that you slept so sound, With me, you could witness beauty, And there was something in my eyes that you found. But my thoughts were too loud, too proud, and poorly cultivated, In a state that simply stated, that I had no jurisdiction. And that, you hated.
We can’t call it bad luck or interruption, When we knowingly ran the red with no assumption, that we would be discovered. Like witnessing the explicit with eyes poorly covered.
We should have cupped our ears, We should have strained the strings. But we cut those playing what we didn’t want to hear. And it’s those silly little things. Silly birds. And the silly songs they sing.
I hope you’ll always be on the telephone wire, When I look outside my window. But I could never put a cage around a free bird.