Birch tree lost its branch one day in violent winter I said it was grieving, you said it don’t feel nothing I bet you think everything’s in its rightful place That sentiment is man’s disgrace
Well the rooks in the trees, they don’t half bother me Clawing at my mind with every given opportunity It’s spring outside, a perilous sky and that terrible clattering sound «Go ahead, you should go shoot them down» That’s what you said, «You should go shoot them down»
So hey, that’s me Shooting at a hundred-year-old rookery Oh, look at me The definition of futility That’s what they’ll say anyway Won’t they, babe?
So I’ll go back to working through the gentle hours of the evening Where the weather and the wine and the company treat me easily Unknowing am I of the wind that took my eye Unknowing am I of the wind
Unknowing am I of the wind that took my eye Unknowing am I of the wind