The Bars in Boston are closed
The basketballs in New York are all stuck at home
And the snow piles heavy
From my branches to my toes
Waiting on a breeze
The birds take to the streets
Like the ghosts of New York
Wondering if Jesus was born on the first day of spring this year
We're changing things up don't be a speculator
Just bet on beans
Bet on toilet paper
Bet on dirt bet on daisies
Bet on shovels bet on spades
For the great white peaks are blowing off steam
Like the innocent cough
Like the sinister sneeze
And the artists with their beans in their pockets and their dreams
Do as they do as they close their eyes
Stare at the ground while the clouds catch fire
Growing flowers in the carpet
Spending hours trying to make themselves cry
Till the white walls close
And the words you wrote
In the dark alone
With your waxy notes
Turns cold and rote
Again and again and again
Like the elves of New York
On Christmas day
Like the bars in Boston
When the home team plays
Like nothing not yet taken away
Till the great corrector gets up from her knees
And looks less like a man
Looks more like a tree
And every right angle twists and tangles into green
And Jesus returns on a dinosaur
Thou shalt not celebrate my birthday no more
And the toilet paper moguls
With their rollers and their bleach and their wars
They yell right back with powerful words
Like I don't know
But maybe I could learn
Till all falls silent
But my branches and the breeze and the birds
And the bars in Boston are all that remain
Where a few old boys from South drink all day
Singing "Danny Boy"
And one about a girl from Galway
And the birds sometimes hear their lonesome songs
And they wonder if for beauty
Or for nothing at all
But they never listen in for too long