I am nothing but the weathervane, a cast iron replicate of old
Turning westward from an eastern breeze, I writhe but can't break from the mould
I was real, real yesterday; I could spread my feathers, fly away
Repetition turns the feathers grey, and makes teeth from what was comb
When will we find our bodies turned to rind?
When will we find we're slowly going blind?
When will we find rainwater turned to brine?
Whether vain or humble, both in time
Hey down there, I'm still your weathervane, A stationary compass rose
Lost my gizzard to taxidermy, lost my crowin' to the cold
Life is precious, precious 'till the day, You realize every day's the same
I AM something, I'm a weathervane, Insignificant and bold!
When will we find our bodies turned to rind?
When will we find we're slowly going blind?
When will we find rainwater turned to brine?
Whether vain or humble, both in time