I heard it be told these doves
Come in black
There's coal in their feathers,
They follow the tracks
Of steam locomotives
Bound for the hills
We trade in our white wings
And wait for the thrill
Fire blank bullets
And misjudge the truth
We star in our own biographical spoof
Mistake the treasure,
Count it all wrong
We use what is made easy
And we use it too long
It's hard to remember
The difference between
Ending it all
And wiping it clean
The lack of compassion
Is smoke in your eyes
The bottom - it falls
When it stands upon pride