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What’s that I see? Why it’s a Lyric bird, flying it seems towards a distant spot on the horizon.

Joyously I finished what we’ll constitute as a ‘final’ set of lyrics today, with efforts in the past weeks to bring all rhymes and misnomers into accord.

“Squawk, squawk,” goes the Lyric bird. “Sounds like more scenes of dystopia to me!”

And you know, Lyric bird, you’d be right; as me and the rock and roll seem to go better when I’m talking to the disaffected child in all of us.

“Squawk!” goes the Lyric bird. “Speak for yourself!” When he flies near he asks how many songs can be drawn up from the same well?

“Quite a lot it seems,” I say. “Quite a lot.” I put out my arm so the Lyric bird might rest.

“Don’t you get tired Billy?” he asks. “You know, of the same rhymes?”

“Of course,” I admit. “But I do have limits.”

“You? Limits? Squawk!”

“No, seriously I do. For example I limit my use of these words: heart, black, never, and dream.”

“And how do you do that?”

“It’s a formula: 9 songs, divide in half, that makes 4.5, right? Ok, so that means half the album can’t have those words at all, and the others can’t have more than 2 per song; with one exception.”

The Lyric bird adjusted himself, plucking at his feathers. “Alright, what’s the exception?”

“If the songs a hit.”

“Do people have hits anymore?”

“Of course they do. It’s just different now. More people listen and less people buy. So a hit generally speaking is the least offensive song that gets bought the most, or the most offensive song that gets talked about a lot. Either way it’ll get you somewhere.”

“Will it get me south for the winter?” Lyric bird asked.

“Actually, no. And with you get paid you can’t even afford to climb up the Stairway To Heaven.”


“Yeah, no joke.”

I waved to the Lyric bird as he flew off, but curiously he cycled back. “I have a question!”

“And what’s that?” I pondered.

“Squawk: what rhymes with orange?”

I scratched my head before yelling up. “I don’t know!”

“Well, when you figure it out you’ll know to quit!” I could barely hear his voice against the wind. “Good luck, William. I’m off!”

“Where Lyric bird, where?”

“To the Aegeas. Sort of where Tommy Lee’s family is from.”

I called out, but he couldn’t hear me. “Wait, Tommy was born there, right?”

But Lyric bird didn’t answer; my query lost to the wind.


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