Dead Radios

Dead radios sing
Like bone-white birds through a junkyard telephone
Sermons for an old piano bench
Dead radios scream the stuff of man
And throw in a rainbow when they can
Call Macchu Picchu, tune in Rome
Bring in the sunset it's no go

And the signal's a mighty train
But all the passengers look the same

Dead radios dream
Of long black cords and miles of memory
Shiny tubes and summer drives
Dead radios cry when you're not there
And scour the AM band for air
Man made a machine, machine made sound
And carried itself into the ground

And the airwaves alone are clear
But the virus is in the ear