sparrow - tilda swinton lyrics
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[intro]
sparrow by norman maccaig
[verse]
he’s no artist
his taste in clothes is more dowdy that gaudy
and his nest, that blackbird, writing pretty scrolls on the air with the gold nib of his beak, would call it a slum
to stalk solitary on lawns, to sing solitary in midnight trees, to glide solitary over gray atlantics
not for him, he’d rather a punch*up in a gutter
he carries what learning he has lightly
it is, in fact, based only on the usefulness whose result is survival
a proletarian bird, no scholar
but when winter soft*shoes in and these other birds, ballet dancers, musicians, architects die in the snow and freeze to branches
watch him happily flying on the o*levels and a*levels of the air
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