Слова:
Nick Cave The Bad Seeds Gates To The Garden

and I pondered My back to the gates of the garden My back to the gates of the garden My back to the gates of the garden Fugitive fathers, sickly infants

and I pondered My back to the gates of the garden My back to the gates of the garden My back to the gates of the garden Fugitive fathers, sickly infants

there and I pondered My back to the gates of the garden My back to the gates of the garden My back to the gates of the garden Fugitive fathers, sickly

tide of public opinion had started to abate The neighbours, bless them, had turned out to be all talk I could see their frightened faces peering at me through the gate