Из альбома: Life
Sawn off shot home,
No one left to mop up
Bright-eyed dull look,
The joke's on your book
Standoff nearby,
A storm on it's way to look
Storm-eye sulking,
The joke's on your book
The sounds are like a calling, like an urging, like the screaming of the prey you watched in awe for hours in the previous life
We'll get our fists out, 'cause there is nothing coming out of this hopeless southern call
I'll show my wrist low, before their empty guts, there's something going foul
We'll get our fists wet, 'cause there is nothing coming out of this hopeless southern call
I'll show my wrist low, before their empty guts, there's something going foul
Standoff nearby,
A storm on it's way to look
Storm-eye sulking,
The joke's on your book
The sounds are like a calling, like an urging, like the screaming of the prey you watched in awe for hours in the previous life
I saw the sword I used to cut the stainless sheets and calling chords, good luck
Sawn off shot home,
No one left to mop up
Bright eyed dull look
The joke's on your book
The sounds are like a calling, like an urging, like the screaming of the prey you watched in awe for hours in the previous life