Andrew Bird

And when our mouths are filled with uninvited tongues of others
And the strays are pining for their unrequited mothers
Milk that sours is promptly spat, light will fill our eyes like cats
And they shall enter from the back
With spears and scepters and squirming sacks
Scribs and tangles between their ears
Faceless scrumbled charcoal smears, oh dear
Through the coppice and the chaparral