The Hundred In The Hand - Pigeons | Текст песни

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• The Hundred In The Hand
• Pigeons

PIGEONS

Saturday comes,
Sunday comes, we go…
Saturday comes,
Sunday comes, we go…
We go…

Kicking on the edge of town
Counting all the pigeons down
Walking in the steps of men.
I have the feeling they’re not breathing.

She’s shaking like a rattle
Sneaking out, the hour’s still
Waiting for the room to fall in
Watching the time unwind.

Saturday, Saturday
Saturday comes,
Sunday comes, we go…

Kicking on the edge of town
Counting all the pigeons down
Walking in the steps of men.
I have the feeling they’re not bleeding.

Laughing like a right-loon
Slavering at the silvery moon
Waiting for the room to fall in
Waiting for him to come.

Saturday, Saturday
Saturday comes,
Sunday comes, we go…

She is still not still is not still.
He is here and not here at all.

Cold grey morning,
Waking in his room she goes
Crawling out the window,
Climbing up the crooked stairs.
Above the ceiling leaning tracing pigeons
Turning circles in the morning sky.
“I don’t know why, you don’t just fly away,
Fly away!
Fly away!”

Saturday comes,
Sunday comes, we go…
Saturday comes,
Sunday comes, we go…
Saturday comes,
Sunday comes, we go…
I don’t know why, you don’t just fly away,
Away, away, away
Saturday comes,
Sunday comes, we go…
I don’t know why, you don’t just fly away,
Away, away, away
We go…


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