Covered in dust, in smoke,
With dry lips, his wings split,
The little birdie drops his tie and runs off to his mother's house,
Everyone's out to get him,
He works,
He survives,
He dies,
It's the endless cycle,
Then the little bird lets its wings grow,
It goes far away,
It doesn't want to look back,
And in its mother's arms it will stay.
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