Aint It the Truth
All calculations set to one side;The inevitable Descent from Heaven,
A visitation of memories and a seance of rhythms
Invades my house, my head,
And the world to mind.
A horse leaps forward on suburban turf,
Past planted fields and streches of woods
Misty with carbonic plague.
A wretched theatrical woman, somewhere in the world,
Sighs after an improbable indulgence.
Desperadoes lie dreaming of storm, and of wounds and debauch.
Along small streams the little children sit,
Stifling their curses.
Let us turn once more to our studies,
To the noise of insatiable movement
That forms and ferments in the masses.
Losowe piosenki:
File 13
Knowing Me, Knowing You
Str8 Ballin
Rush Rush
Words to my first born
Ave Maria
S.O.S.