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The Messenger

This song is by Brown Bird and appears on the album Fits of Reason (2013).

There are fleeting fits of reason between the sleeping and the drinks
When a million different sensory experiences blink
And its there within the momentary darkness you can breathe
And be a form without reflection or debris
There are bloody bouts of tenderness against the bonds of fear
Fixed in combat everlasting, vultures circled ever near
Now they're placing bets deciding who will be the first to feast
But we can flood the battlefield with song and beer
Barrel-chested bankers buying billboards by the score
Placing all their eggs in baskets made of future futile wars
Now their children fight in microcosmic mirrors of their game
And the messenger will always be to blame
There are centuries of seasons turning white to green to brown
Cycling through each solar sequence, turning temperaments around
When this incessant spinning ceases making dizzy all our days
We'll succumb to something stranger anyway
To some disaster of a disorienting brand new day
Barrel-chested bankers buying billboards by the score
Placing all their eggs in baskets made of future futile wars
Now their children fight in microcosmic mirrors of their game
And the messenger will always be to blame

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