Pulp
"The Trees"


I took an air-rifle, shot a magpie to the ground & it died without a sound. 
Your skin so pale against the fallen Autumn leaves & no-one saw us but the
trees. 
Yeah, the trees, those useless trees produce the air that I am breathing. 
Yeah, the trees, those useless trees; they never said that you were leaving. 
I carved your name with a heart just up above - now swollen, distorted,
unrecognisable; like our love. 
The smell of leaf mould & the sweetness of decay are the incense at the funeral
procession here, today. 
In the trees, those useless trees, etc. 
You try to shape the world to what you want the world to be. 
Carving your name a thousand times won't bring you back to me. 
Oh no, no I might as well go & tell it to the trees.