Every suntan tells stories and the shape of the white snitches Fat men in tropical climes Now you tell me you've been fucking King Creosote, and that I should've known for a while
Watching the starlings as autumn draws in As they make ghosts across London fields And I would've moved out there to be with you I would've moved out there for real
Saw a choir of golden angels wearing matching rucksacks As they obscured the view to your train And I'm sorry if it seems like I'm rambling here
Because I want to see the way the skin splits round his bones And the gurgling head in your lap And the arms of the crowd as they pull me away And the mud and the blood in the grass When we scraped our bones together We got fire (fire, fire, fire) When we scraped our bones together We got fire (fire, fire, fire) And we scraped our bones together We got fire (fire, fire, fire) We scraped our bones together We got fire (fire, fire, fire)Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
