I’m not sure if the time that I’ve wasted is enough to keep you in that mood
Or if the bird that’s flying will happily live till he’ll reach the wood
And come into nest with the worm that he’s carrying quietly in his beak
Until the old black slave will finally be able to say I’m free

I see all the little things you’ve prepared are arranged waiting for me to say
That kinda word that for some is really hard to cough out, I appreciate
A few thousands of eyes of your cats are blinking while watching what I do
I feel I’m sweating with every little look mister Peeping pierces me through

---

Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.