Needle scar's, there on his arm,
From shooting up bourbon and coke.
He just had to see,
What would be,
When lifes flame, just turns to smoke. When the flame just turns to smoke.

(Chorus)
The fever in his tortured heart,
Gave twisted visions, rambling but clear,
If the sun one day, will fade away,
Then why are we still here ? Yeah, why are we still here ?

Brightly colored song birds,
Live inside his head.
Their perfect songs,
Don't stay long.
They just fly away instead. Yeah, just fly away instead.

Like a baby bird, in the nest,
Open mouth, reaching for the sky.
Swallows whatever comes along.
With a perfect song, he’ll fly. Yeah, the perfect song will fly.

A single bullet in the pistol,
He points it towards his ear.
Spins the cylinder, pulls the trigger,
He wonders what he'll hear. Yeah, wonder’s what he'll hear.

But life's so much the sweeter,
Having heard that perfect song.
Like colored feathers, left behind.
In life’s nest where they belong. Yeah, in life’s nest where they belong.


The songbird, makes them listen.
Sometimes he makes them cry,
He always makes them feel their lives,
While he’s waiting round to die. Just waiting round to die.