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Brooklyn Boy
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Kevin Devine
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Brooklyn boy, born and raised Chopping lines, hey hey It's my birthday It's a toy I torch to tarpit flames A lockjaw night, hey hey It's my birthday And your dead end friends Make your stomach shake And your hissing head Barrels down that blackened lane Alone at last to figure how you got this way Charcoal clouds spot and spray They kill the sun, hey hey Hear its back break So I can never tell night from day Or right from wrong, hey hey Hear my head ache And your silver tounge Masks your hungry hate While your haggard heart Whispers through its cracking cage, "You still can change; you have to know You still can change." I know, I know - for now, I want to be this way. This was a choice; this was never a mistake.
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Ton pseudo sera publié. Laisses les champs vide pour rester anonyme.
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