Andrew Bird

His keeping busy, yeah he's bleeding stones,
With his machinations and his palindromes
It was anything but hear the voice
Anything but hear the voice
It was anything but hear the voice
That says that we’re all basically alone
Poor Professor Pynchon had only good intentions
When he put his Bunsen burners all away
And turned into a playground a petri dish of single cells
That would swing their fists at anything that looks like easy prey
On this nature show that rages every day it was bound,
A part his intuition
To say we were all basically alone
And despite what all his studies had shown
What was mistaken for closeness was just a case for mitosis
Why do some show no mercy
While others are painfully shy?
And tell me doctor can quantify