Fog dangling thick Can’t see the right road Streets are sick, The eight day mill It might grind slow, but it grinds fine
Indian rope man, while lookin’ on Tells common clay he’s heavenly born Retired layman looks on in scorn, With a transplanted heart Kiss him quick, he has to part. Yeah… yeah
Indian rope man sees the times, Splitting loose the edge of minds Catching losers in his line, in his line, yeah Kiss him quick, he has to part. Yeah… yeah
Indian rope man flexes his eye, Dissolving the fog Revealing the lie Indian rope man holds my trick in his heart, yeah Kiss him quick, he has to part Yeah… yeahTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
