|
Oh, we are nothing but what always leave behind |
|
withering into the sun |
|
side color nearest humming bird on a wire |
|
eyeing the cloak of the sun |
|
Yes, we are nothing but what always leave behind |
|
and this Canadian poetries and incantations and a bullet on a ride |
|
I haven't read them, I will not read them |
|
for they dwell too much on times |
|
Yes, the desert is at sea and |
|
I left this bullwhip with the night stand |
|
Julliard was a thousand miles away |
|
Where are you gonna run when the clouds break? |
|
And the sun peaks it eyes with attitude and rises itself on big lust lust |
|
feeling in big ranges rocks |
|
feeling in the big ranges rocks rocks |
|
feeling in the big ranges rocks |
|
It signifies I am being petrified in all the rolling shit we left behind |
|
white pages of ages rocking the paint of ages |
|
looking at your graceless depictions of life |
|
to read there shall be nothing left to write |
|
and that's when I cannonball them all |
|
I left this bullwhip with the night stand |
|
Julliard you were a thousand miles across when you said it drops |
|
feeling in the big ranges rocks |
|
feeling in the big ranges rocks rocks |
|
feeling in the big ranges rocks uh |
