Shot Through The Fog Lyrics
| Song | Shot Through The Fog |
| Artist | Piano Magic |
| Album | Writers Without Homes |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : JOHNSON GLEN ASHLEY | |
| 作词 : Johnson, Raymonde | |
| Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock | |
| The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire | |
| I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice | |
| In a super 8 film colour haze, a scratched nostalgia that runs through my cogs - shot through the fog; time taking care of whatever I cared about | |
| So you are lost somewhere in here - your body, a raft,spinning towards the falls | |
| Your death claimed me too - there were two throats in the noose but mine now swallows whiskey, mine is not now bruised | |
| The black mouth of this month, bruised lips, black ice, forms a sickly smile across London's sky |
| zuo qu : JOHNSON GLEN ASHLEY | |
| zuo ci : Johnson, Raymonde | |
| Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock | |
| The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire | |
| I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice | |
| In a super 8 film colour haze, a scratched nostalgia that runs through my cogs shot through the fog time taking care of whatever I cared about | |
| So you are lost somewhere in here your body, a raft, spinning towards the falls | |
| Your death claimed me too there were two throats in the noose but mine now swallows whiskey, mine is not now bruised | |
| The black mouth of this month, bruised lips, black ice, forms a sickly smile across London' s sky |
| zuò qǔ : JOHNSON GLEN ASHLEY | |
| zuò cí : Johnson, Raymonde | |
| Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock | |
| The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire | |
| I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice | |
| In a super 8 film colour haze, a scratched nostalgia that runs through my cogs shot through the fog time taking care of whatever I cared about | |
| So you are lost somewhere in here your body, a raft, spinning towards the falls | |
| Your death claimed me too there were two throats in the noose but mine now swallows whiskey, mine is not now bruised | |
| The black mouth of this month, bruised lips, black ice, forms a sickly smile across London' s sky |
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