Слова:
Bird Andrew Armchair Apocrypha

Time's a crooked bow, oh, ooh Fifty-five and three-eighths years later At the bottom of this gigantic crater An armchair calls to you Yeah, this armchair

Born host to a tongue so sing a song about it Held a breath for too long till we're half sick about it Tell us what we did wrong, then you can blame us

Two stars are missing me Jet waves are driving me Things in nicer motions We are hauling to space G force is twisting the faith with superstition A fatal

Five day forecast bring black tall rains and hellfire While handpicked tenderness kid gloves tear at the inseam Their Halliburton Attache cases are useless

The finches and sparrows build nests in my chimney What remains of the small flightless birds that you failed to protect But the yoke isn?t easy, in fact

s a crooked bow time?s a crooked bow fifty-five and three?eighths years later at the bottom of this gigantic crater and armchair calls to you yeah this armchair

turnstiles on mezzanine jet ways and Dramamine fiends and x-ray machines you were hurling through space g-forces twisting your face breeding superstition

he's keeping busy yeah he's bleeding stones with his machinations and his palindromes it was anything but hear the voice that says that we're all basically

five day forecast bring black tar rains and hellfire while handpicked handler's kid gloves tear at the inseams their Halliburton attache cases are useless