Have you heard the singing thrushes,
No, not the thrushes, not field,
And thrushes, blackbirds wizards,
Singers elected Russia.
And thrushes, blackbirds wizards,
Singers elected Russia.
Here they sat on Forests
Sounded to oblivion,
I will know them by their voices,
Calls overlords instantly.
I will know them by their voices,
Calls overlords instantly.
Sounds grow like flowers,
Sad, funny, either.
That hot, to redness,
That chilly blue.
That hot, to redness,
That chilly blue.
Get to the morning star,
Rainbow falling on the grass,
Hats off to the woods singing thrushes,
For the soul sing, not for fame.
Hats off to the woods singing thrushes,
For the soul sing, not for fame.
