A false-dawn chorus fills God’s recording booth.
They’re having a right old chatter,
From tree to tree, pylon to pylon.
A wall of sound, there’s not a gap in the texture.
Though I’m sure Spector’s sawn-off shotgun would unravel the magic,
As fast as it broke Ronnie’s trilling when he leveled it in her face.
Anyone offered a golden sarcophagus with a glad-wrap roof,
And a threat for every note hit,
Would purse their lips, too.
Keep harmony with harmony till the end of days.
Scary stuff – just ask them nouveau hostages, The Ramones…
Still, there’s no scarecrow here,
Just a place called home,
And broad blue skies for these strains to soar through.