Air Bird Lyrics

Bird. The old gunfighter. The oldest. Roads on his face, roads walked by innumerable gunfights, said Shatzy. His eyes swallowed up in his skull, and hands of olivewood, quick hands, like branches in winter. Weary. The comb, in the morning, dipped in water, parting the white hair, transparent by now. Tobacco lungs in the voice that says softly: What a wind today.
Nothing worse for a gunfighter than not to die.
Look around, every unfamiliar face could be that of yet another fool arriving from far away to become the one who killed Clay "Bird" Puller. If you want to know when you become a legend, then listen: it's when your enemies always come from behind. As long as they come at you from the front you're only a gunfighter. Glory is a trail of s___, behind your back.
Hurry up, a__hole, I said to him without even turning around. The boy wore a black hat, and in his pocket was some piece of c___ that was the memory of a distant hatred, and the promise of some sort of vengeance. Too late, a__hole.
With these roads on my face, cowardly old age, peeing on myself in the night, the goddam pain below the belt, like a burning rock between belly and a__, day never comes, and when it comes it's a desert of empty time to cross. How did I get here? Me.
The way Bird shot. He wore his holster backward, with the b___s of the guns facing forward. He would draw with his arms crossed, the right gun in his left hand and vice versa. That way, when he came toward you, his fingers touching the gun b___s, he seemed like a condemned man, like a prisoner on his way to the gallows, with his arms crossed in front. A second later he was a bird of prey opening its wings, a whip in the air, and the straight flight of two bullets. Bird.
What is this creeping through the fog of my cataracts, I am forced to count the hours, I who knew instants, and that was the only time that existed for me. The swerve of a pupil, the whitened knuckles around a glass, a spur in the side of the horse, the shadow of a shadow on the blue wall. They saw a flash where I saw a map, a star where I saw heavens. I looked within the folds of time that for them were already a memory. There was no other way, I had been taught, to see death before it arrives. What is that, creeping through the fog of my cataracts, I am forced to spy on the cards of others, searching for cues from my seat, always in the second row, in the evening throwing rocks at the dogs, in my pocket an old man's money that the w____s don't want, a mariachi player will take it when he comes, may your song be long and sad, boy, I want to dance tonight, until sunset.
They said that Bird always carried a dictionary with him. French. He had learned all the words, one after another, in alphabetical order. He was so old that he had already been around once and now was in the "G"s for the second time. No one knew why in the world he did it. But once, in Tandeltown, they say that he went up to a woman, she was beautiful, tall, green-eyed, you had to wonder how she had ended up there. He went up to her and said: Enchanté.
Clay "Bird" Puller. He'll have a wonderful death, said Shatzy. I've promised him: a wonderful death.