I suppose that the violin cries
as we cut across her strings
I suppose that all things die
It happens to all beings
I guess that the piano shakes
from the weight that it carries
The singer’s voice slowly breaks
because he always worries
I’m sure it’s okay to laugh
It’s just another funeral
I often like to take a bath
after every bird that I kill
They had tried to fly away
but there wasn’t enough air
I tried to make them stay
but I suppose that they don’t care
I don’t really want to write
about a clarinet
I don’t know what you’ll think
I mean to say for this object
Yes, it’s long and empty
but hey, so is life
Over before you begin
Yeah … that’s what sex is also like
I think that drums are dramatic
Well, of course they are
Even you would be a dick
if you were hit that hard
And when I watch leaves fall
floating gently to the ground
I pretend they crash like cymbals
interrupting every sound
I suppose this needs an ending
just as all songs do
Play life like an accordion
heavy, but beautiful
And when the guitar ends
I’ll bring my harmonica with me to Hell
quickly stopping first by heaven
to hear if angels play the harp well
as we cut across her strings
I suppose that all things die
It happens to all beings
I guess that the piano shakes
from the weight that it carries
The singer’s voice slowly breaks
because he always worries
I’m sure it’s okay to laugh
It’s just another funeral
I often like to take a bath
after every bird that I kill
They had tried to fly away
but there wasn’t enough air
I tried to make them stay
but I suppose that they don’t care
I don’t really want to write
about a clarinet
I don’t know what you’ll think
I mean to say for this object
Yes, it’s long and empty
but hey, so is life
Over before you begin
Yeah … that’s what sex is also like
I think that drums are dramatic
Well, of course they are
Even you would be a dick
if you were hit that hard
And when I watch leaves fall
floating gently to the ground
I pretend they crash like cymbals
interrupting every sound
I suppose this needs an ending
just as all songs do
Play life like an accordion
heavy, but beautiful
And when the guitar ends
I’ll bring my harmonica with me to Hell
quickly stopping first by heaven
to hear if angels play the harp well