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Kate played piano from when she was nine,

and believed when they said each good boy does fine.

By the light of a sunrise or the light of the moon,

she learned all her scales and could play a few tunes.

And she was a pretty bird;

she was a pretty bird.

Under stations and staves she shouldered and bowed.

Still she walked that well-worn black and white road.

But a bird cannot stay in a cage while she sings,

though you cover her eyes and clip both her wings.

And call her a pretty bird;

and call her a pretty bird.

And the truth is sometimes to true to be good.

Scarecrows and shamen are not thicker than blood.

Kat shone projections at words in the walls,

slapped in the face and kicked in the balls.

Winter will freeze the roots in the soil,

but nightmares arrive smiling like oil.

Then Kate became Katherine, but Katherine was Kate,

travelling lines she could not separate.

Still she sang like a pretty bird;

she sang like a pretty bird

© Michael Worthington Music 2017

My Tecumseh Valley...'nightmares arrive smiling like oil'

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