true King's murderers are allowed to roam free a 1000 magicians arise in the land) Where are the feasts We were promised Where is the wine The New Wine
and she will show her brothers photographed in kalised clothes. Say tomorrow and she 'll say come find me, on a beach and there will be no moon. But
Jenny was gone, and the moon blooms, all shining As we dragged our panic up and down the riverbed Sweating wild and weird in our Sunday clothes Jenny
is black tonight we're the scent of your long black hair spread out like your breath across my back Your hands they move like waves over me beneath the moon
and to look the other way while she shines my mother's imitation pearls sunday evening, my Rebecca's lost a book she never read and the moon already
kiss tonight from some tall stable girl She's like grace from the earth When you're all tuckered out and tame One more tired thing the gray moon on
(Feat. Calexico) Oh, the gentlemen are talking and the midnight moon is on the riverside, They're drinking up and walking and it is time for me to
more kiss tonight from some tall stable girl She?s like grace from the earth When you?re all tuckered out and tame One more tired thing the gray moon
out flossin' but yet the shine is glossy And where the lyrical train through your brain shit Strategy pain, I'm on some Clubber Lang shit With the iron
Your God isn't here - She is dead Crushed by your Prophets of Dread Death-Fire, Mist, Blood and Wine Torn like a rose from the vine So you run to the
But yet the shine is glossy and the run the lyrical train through your brain shit Strategy pain, I'm on some Clubber Lane shit With the iron, ain't no
how many times, swan we got cold you uncorked your wine how far we drove drunk on a car of paper charms light drawing sun cartoons sunday fairs and red
thy empty stare The overcast sky consoling me, The fortitude within my grasp I think to myself I'm the sad clown; Smiling reluctantly, but crying behind the iron
: Your God isn't here - She is dead Crushed by your Prophets of Dread Death-Fire, Mist, Blood and Wine Torn like a rose from the vine So you run to the
the shine is glossy and the run the lyrical train through your brain shit Strategy pain, I'm on some Clubber Lane shit With the iron, ain't no use in