Слова:
Jets To Brazil Four Cornered Night

i love my mother for all the things she's not but mostly for who she is i love my father for all the things he's thought but really for the things he

will somehow be allright i see you c.w. there is no other you dawn comes down to your room sing song blacking up my blue the floor's a mess of cords track number four

air traffic control it's me coach-class row thirteen i've got that sinking feeling is everything allright? stare at the wing and think it's later than

kid i held you with these arms that felt so hard you kept your chin up and i held my guard made a prison bed from a life i never led let me correct these

what will you do to turn this around so many behind you so many before you ticket in one hand gun in the other what will you do which hand will you use

i just found the frame where i took your picture away and in my wallet like a saint from some other place that picture repays my eyes as they glaze