Little bird with a golden key
Little bird, you fly faster than me
Little bird with a blue paintbrush
Little bird, it's no race, there's no rush
Little bird at my fingertips,
Ain't the sunlight carved up in strips?
Though you don't play the harp no more
Little bird, won't you pull the rug off the floor and dance?
It ain't a crime. Toss the village kids a dime. Sing a song to make them pray.
Just run. Make a scene. Point a mirror down the hall of gasoline.
Both will wash away.
Little bird with a golden key
Little bird, you're a mystery to me
With your blue Honduran scarf and your leather case,
Ain't you just a vision in this place?
Sitting chirping above my door,
Must I come out and scare you off once more?
When the lights are low and the sooth's been said,
Little bird, I know you'll crawl out of my bed and fly
To pretend that we're not the weak, that it's not the end of our Grecian holiday.
The sun turns the page, the lowing of the cows will set the stage,
Both will wash away.
The second EP from Northern Irish singer-songwriter Bea Stewart runs from gentle folk to pillowy pop ballads, all perfectly executed. Bandcamp New & Notable Apr 15, 2024