Kids with sharp teeth know a thing or two
About the things they'd rather do
And when the beast gets a runnin' 'round
When they knock it to the cold dead ground

Birds with sharp beaks with an alibi
Tell you how to find the cold blue sky
And when then we sing for the photograph
When we hold alive the things are past

Always, always arriving, oh, to mashing, to following past
Always, always arising, never endless hard piece of the last