I took an air-rifle, shot a magpie to the ground & it died without a sound.
Your skin so pale against the fallen Autumn leaves &
no-one saw us but the trees.

Yeah, the trees, those useless trees produce the air that I am breathing.
Yeah, the trees, those useless trees; they never said that you were leaving.

I carved your name with a heart just up above - now swollen,
distorted, unrecognisable; like our love.
The smell of leaf mould & the sweetness of decay
are the incense at the funeral procession here, today.

Yeah, the trees, those useless trees produce the air that I am breathing.
Yeah, the trees, those useless trees; they never said that you were leaving.

You try to shape the world to what you want the world to be.
Carving your name a thousand times won't bring you back to me.
Oh no, no I might as well go & tell it to the trees.
Go & tell it to the trees, yeah.

(Provavelmente a melhor dos Pulp. Quando a ouço, penso em In The Mood For Love, de Wong Kar-Wai. Dizer para dentro da árvore o que no seu devido tempo não foi dito.)