Text: Salad. Broken Bird.

The backroom card game under smoky mobiles
The lift attendent who's been riding for miles
Safari season is upon us once more
The lion's share to the man by the door

She twists her body like a broken bird
And staggers to the lift without a single word

Her taking leave of the spinning room
Leaves rain unwatched under eyeing moon
In third floor peace dwelling on he fate
She dents the side of the bed with her sparrow weight

She twists her body like a broken bird
And cranes her neck down slowly to the water

As luck would have it she desired that man
So she threw away hearts to weaken her hand
The winner in a grey suit fills the frame
Unaware that she's still playing her game

She twists her body like a broken bird
As waves roll up the shore and break softly