I heard it be told these dovesnCome in blacknThere's coal in their feathers,nThey follow the tracksnOf steam locomotivesnBound for the hillsnWe trade in our white wingsnAnd wait for the thrillnnFire blank bulletsnAnd misjudge the truthnWe star in our own biographical spoofnMistake the treasure,nCount it all wrongnWe use what is made easynAnd we use it too longnnIt's hard to remembernThe difference betweennEnding it allnAnd wiping it cleannThe lack of compassionnIs smoke in your eyesnThe bottom - it fallsnWhen it stands upon pride