Lyrics

[Intro] Sparrow by Norman MacCaig [Verse] He's no artist His taste in clothes is more dowdy that gaudy And his nest, that blackbird, writing pretty scrolls on the air with the gold nib of his beak, would call it a slum To stalk solitary on lawns, to sing solitary in midnight trees, to glide solitary over gray Atlantics Not for him, he'd rather a punch-up in a gutter He carries what learning he has lightly It is, in fact, based only on the usefulness whose result is survival A proletarian bird, no scholar But when winter soft-shoes in and these other birds, ballet dancers, musicians, architects die in the snow and freeze to branches Watch him happily flying on the O-levels and A-levels of the air