facing a dying dove in the gutter
flyng down town no more
feeling kind of sore
In the blood, on the stones,
lying in the mud,
it moans

oh, pretty thing take me with you ones more.

The way I jused to fly with messy wings
is the way to live and to appreciate little things
the kind of things
that you can't realy see
and cant realy crush
just pale pink cheeks that starts to blush

oh, can't I fly with you just ones more
Can't my life hide it self behind the stage
lur somewhere in the cages
and don't bother me anymore


facing a dying artiste in her bed
flying down town no more
feeling kind of sore
In the sheets, no stones,
down to her feets,
but she moans

oh, pretty thing take me with you ones more.