The Trees
I took an air-rifle, shot a magpie to the ground
and it died without a sound
Your skin so pale against the fallen autumn leaves
and no-one saw us but the trees.
Yeah, the trees, those useless trees
produce the air that I am breathing.
Yeah, the trees, those useless trees;
they never said that you were leaving.
I carved your name with a heart just up above
- now swollen, distorted, unrecognisable; like our love.
The smell of leaf mould & the sweetness of decay
are the incense at the funeral procession here, today.
In the trees, those useless trees,
produce the air that I am breathing.
Yeah, the trees, those useless trees;
they never said that you were leaving.
You try to shape the world to what you want the world to be.
Carving your name a thousand times won't bring you back to me.
Oh no, no I might as well go & tell it to the trees.
Go & tell it to the trees, yeah.
Pulp