The Birds
O to be a bird…just wingin’ it up above the herd. Nowhere to be but feathered and free. Fences are futile and rules are inane. The warm breeze rises; I’m carried away, carried away.
O to be a bird…just wingin’ it up above the herd. Nowhere to be but feathered and free. Fences are futile and rules are inane. The warm breeze rises; I’m carried away, carried away.