If the room was only big enough for a hushed and weary sound, and the clock was slowly ticking and pounding in my head, And the roots grow slowly over all the books and words we've said, and my hands become invisible to the notes that fill the air, and the reason that we're here today is constantly reproachably the last thing that lingers here...
Tick, tock, the waves are crashing past the dock of inconveniences, and all the rhymes and reasons happens to be, fortunately, your greedy little mouths drowned out.
And all the way from the east side there, upon a strand of a stranger's hair we stare as the sun pierces through the last of the stones that held up the thrones of gods who cater to horders and lawyers and doctors and all of your guns and knives will be the end of a time that could have been sublime, but we'll always end up in the mouths of the rats in the cracks of the walls waiting for us, patiently.
Tick, tock, the waves are crashing past the dock of inconveniences, and all the rhymes and reasons happens to be, fortunately, your greedy little mouths drowned out.
And all of the mountain people know that in the eyes of man will grow the ugliest sight that we'll never see all crumbs and dust and then no trees...
Tick, tock, the waves are crashing past the dock of inconveniences, and all the rhymes and reasons happens to be, fortunately, your greedy little mouths drowned out.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
