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The smokey joe is broken Drops into your lap And the big red wasp Makes a scan through My black pages
Last night our boy was out there Burning up his matches I saw him in the afternoon Sporting a black eye
The universal man Holds a pistol or a bottle Types with confidence As we grow out of our Bruises
Once i had a friend Who had the knack of tossing His mind around geography Boy you think, you have problems
The hunter is asleep At least that's what i call him In the afternoon Of the new cobweb SummerTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
