of holy music. There's a slap in my face. My friends are girls wrapped in boys. We're living in pieces. I want to live in peace. Society is a hole. . talking
Thurston. A-back in the days when the battles raged,. And we thought it was nothing. A bookstore man meets the cia,. And we know. Throw me a cord and plug it in,. Get the cradle rocking. Ah
I'm not in love. I haven't got the world on a string. I don't believe in Paris or spring. And I don't wait for rings. Despite my youth, I haven't got a head full of clouds. I don't take cues
Going back to these origins. City is a natural scape. Order in the details. Confusion uproar in the whole. Nature reality is selection. The tool of critical intervention. Fragmentation is the
. However glorified still uncorrupted. With a steady heartbeat. Or better still of love. That's also passionate and wide. That holds the light of youth. And makes you playful like a child. And let me fall in
. All the time. Put "ME" in the equation it's alright. I've seen you moving in and out of sight. My friends tell me it'll all cut through you. From nowhere. To nowhere. Cut together. Cutting
You gave your line, you fell in love. You feel in the shadow there's no more to borrow. There's no more to steal and no more to feel I know, I know, I know. I know, I know, I know. I know, I know
spinning round a saint. Like colored wild sign. Theresa talkin' in the rain Like girl be growin' thru town. Windows are thoughts in the stain. I know I'd love her to stay. Whispering signs are agreeing
spinning round a saint. Like colored wild sign. There'sa talkin' in the rain. . Like girl be growin' thru town. Windows are thoughts in the stain. I know I'd love her to stay. Whispering signs are
Thurston. Snake in it. Jack into the wall. TV amp on fire. Blowin' in the hall. Gun yr. sled. Close yr. peeping toms. Turbo organizer. Crankin' on the knob. . You got it. Yeh ride the
spinning round a saint. Like colored wild sign. There'sa talkin' in the rain. . Like girl be growin' thru town. Windows are thoughts in the stain. I know I'd love her to stay. Whispering signs are
. The only joy I found. The only joy in town. The Botticelli black boy. With the fuchias in his hair. Is breathing in women like oxygen. On the Spanish stairs. In my youth I would have followed him