i heard it be told these doves come in black there s coal in their feathers they follow the tracks of steam locomotives bound for the hills we trade in our white wings and wait for the thrill fire blank bullets and misjudge the truth we star in our own biographical spoof mistake the treasure count it all wrong we use what is made easy and we use it too long it s hard to remember the difference between ending it all and wiping it clean the lack of compassion is smoke in your eyes the bottom it falls when it stands upon pride