a feather drops

who tells the secrets may not be a spy
the watcher in the attic is a bird
the little fib turns out not to be a lie
the logic of the matter turns absurd
what if the house was made of air not wood
the road of dreams and not of tarmac
it is the wolf who hides beneath the hood
but he just wants to talk not to attack
the tale's disturbed by a distinct account
we thought we knew it but now we are lost
the price we paid is now the wrong amount
and we are now responsible for the cost
the clock runs on the power of coiling springs
the bird upon the hour comes out and sings