The name of every landlord is displayed out on the awning And the farmers in the amber fields were harmonized in yawning As the memory of the ghost hung at the exit And the city doctor called in feeling head sick
All the freedom-founding fathers Altogether speak too soon The sounds that mutter underneath The glowing, Greek blue moon As tide rose up beyond the walking trail Soon un-hibernated every mocking gale React to it at your leisure, modern pressure
All the street were filled with carbon And a pack of trembling dogs The weather comes in from the east and spills a Kremlin fog As they filled the holes of every open tomb Near the factories of dirty broken looms
The sky was open wide And it was pouring Civil War The body that you carry once comprised of simple lore Where the iceman at the cinema wrote anagrams But no one could blow past your little diaphragm The stillness of the changing weather, modern pressure
That oasis sometimes lingers like a patch of blackened ice And the cellars of the ruins have been locked and packed in twice Only names are what remain to label you Where I heard the prayers of sex and table food Off beyond the sunrise waits another pounding storm Somewhere from the rubble sounds of nothing sounding born
And the zero ground of future battle sights While the gods still fill our heads with satellites Take the seeds my holy thresher, modern pressureTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
