Retard and Feathered

All of you dead doves on sunstaining streets
Becoming soul mates with soles of my feet
Clipped little wings
Escaping the rain
Crash into windows and bruise their birdbrains
The second verse is as bored as the first
Satanic gloom and barbiturate doom
Pawning guitars to heat up a spoon
You can't just eat shit on an empty stomach
And then act surprised at what comes out of it