Parakeet - R.E.M.

You wake up in the morning

And fall out of your bed

Mean cats eat parakeets

And this one’s nearly dead.

You dearly wish the wind would shift

And greasy windows slide

Open for the parakeet

Who’s colored bitter lime.

Open the window

And lift into your dreams

Lately, baby

You can barely breathe.

A broken wrist

An accident

You know that something’s wrong

You fold the leavings of your past

No one knows you’ve gone.

The sunspot flares of the early

Nineties light up your wings.

And scan the shotwave radio

It’s tracking outer rings.