andrew bird s bowl of fire
ides of swing
Some say April is the cruelest And though I can be quite morose The stiff who penned it on a fool's list Of those who are chronically verbose When your head starts craning back And your breath comes short and fast The music of the spheres start to bounce and sing That's when you know you're swinging When your eyes roll back into your head And the sap from the trees on your fingers have bled Swooning to the charms of Mephisto's waltz That's when you know you've got some schmaltz When you've got the evil eye and unconsciously growl Your hands start shaking and you crouch and prowl These terrifying symptoms are a sure fire sign That you're pimping, baby and you're feeling fine