This is a sad fuckin' song We'll be lucky if I don't bust out crying
How does it feel? Your night light, your curling iron Lit up by the sweat of others, For pennies a day But not from November to May
The floor is littered With woodchips and apple cores And hulls (holes, husks?) of acorns There is a chattering sound
Because they were squirrels; real squirrels. (And there were thousands) This isn't some kind of metaphor, Goddamn, this is realTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
