The Digital Cuckoo

The digital cuckoo hastens in the spring
I must admit, I kind of miss
The way he used to sing, he used to sing, he used to sing

One day, we'll play
With tennis racquets made of wood
And footballs of brown leather

We'll fly our little plane on one propeller
All these things have changed for good
Good but not for better, good but not for better

Forever changing, is that man of great ambition
Death and blinding managing, to be held in one position
But when I exercise my feet, I like to recognise my street
I'm now so acquainted with my prison

The digital rooster, welcomes in the day
I must confess, I love him less
Each time I wake this way, I wake this way, I wake this way

One day, we'll play
With tennis racquets made of wood
And footballs of brown leathe

We'll fly our little plane on one propeller
All these things have changed for good
Good but not for better, good but not for better

Forever changing, is that man of great ambition
Death and blinding managing, to be held in one position
But when I exercise my feet, I like to recognise my street
I'm now so acquainted with my prison

He used to sing, he used to sing...