Lyrics
Yo. Door's open. (flap... flap...) ...huh. Okay. Cool. Cool cool cool. Raised in a gold little box with a view, free breakfast, free sermon, free nothing-to-do. They called it protection, I called it a pause, a pretty little prison with a bird-shaped clause. I learned the sky through a window, I memorized blue, studied every cloud like a textbook — it's true. I know how to fly. Got the theory, the notes, wingspan on paper, a PhD in hope. Fed on a schedule, watered on time, they said sing, baby, sing — so I sang 'em my rhyme. Every time I hit a high note they'd smile and they'd clap, and quietly pull one feather for the man's pillow nap. Cage door open — so where's my wings? Got the how-to, lost the things. Call it a privilege: seed and shade, free bird, featherless, still afraid. Walk, walk, walk like a hen in the yard, nobody told me that free would be hard. Can a bird survive on two feet and a dream? Ask the chicken. Ask the chicken. (cluck) See, I didn't get clipped, nah — I got convinced. Molted in the metal and nobody winced. Traded a wing for a warm little bed, "you don't need to fly when you're already fed." Now I'm out here bald as a bargain, no plume, sky's a whole ceiling and I'm stuck in the room. Gravity's petty, she never forgot, she been waiting on me like girl, give me all you got. I flew the coop with a coop on my back, carry the bars in my chest, that's the catch. Free as a bird — but which bird, though? Which one? 'Cause some of us soar and some get picked for someone. Cage door open — so where's my wings? Got the how-to, lost the things. Call it a privilege: seed and shade, free bird, featherless, still afraid. Walk, walk, walk like a hen in the yard, nobody told me that free would be hard. Can a bird survive on two feet and a dream? Ask the chicken. Ask the chicken. (cluck) A chicken is a bird too. Same blood, same beak, same coo. They fed her, they housed her, they kept her from harm — and then they put her on the menu with a side of warm. So maybe fed ain't free. Maybe fed's the fee. Maybe privilege is just the name they gave the thing that came for me. So I'm walking. On purpose. Head high, no flight, two little dinosaur feet in the night. Pecking order? Baby, I quit the whole league, I'd rather starve honest than be plump and obliged. Free range is still a range, don't get it confused, a bigger box is a box with a better review. But feathers grow. Slow. Itchy and bare — and one day I'ma sneeze and go airborne on 'em, I swear. Till then I'm the ugliest hope you done seen, a naked little omen with a walk that's mean. Wasn't born to be somebody's dinner or pet — I'm just early. I'm not finished yet. Feathers pending. Sky's on layaway. (flap... flap... flap.) ...she's getting there.