like carillon bells, the house of Augustus rings
with the echoing hymn of my fellow passerine, they took to it
like a fox to a burrow, like an eagle to an aerie
and my god, it's getting hard to even hum a single thing
you were the song that I'd always sing
you were the light that the fire would bring
but I can't shake this feeling that I was only
pushing the spear into your side again
see, my birds of a kind, they more and more are looking like
centurions than any little messiah
and as I prune my feathers like leaves from a vine
I find that we have fewer and fewer in kind, but
my palms and fingers still reek of gasoline
from throwing fuel to the fire of that Greco-Roman dream
purifying the holy rock to melt the gilded seams
it don't bring me relief, no it don't bring me nothing that
when he comes a knocking at my door
what am I to do, oh lord
when the cold wind rolls in from the north
what am I to do, oh lord
