He doesn't like gold With its high density It's too heavy to haul Back home
And he doesn't like beds That are soft as he lays With his head in her hands And below
And he can't believe he is sane For no sorrow has yet Had the power to drastically Change his prospects On nothing at all and anything yet
Oh, you Sunday kid And forever a Sunday kid Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa. |
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