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High Above The Streets In The Company Of Cowards
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Cold By Winter
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Take, look, touch as you please My history is dead, youll follow me into my disease My friends are socialists and dancers I have decorated my body With tattoos connecting me to Endemic peoples What you live through they claim to their own land at price But it means nothing Nothing Take, look, touch as you please My history is dead, youll follow me into my disease Am I lost? No Find a place in this diatribe But I have read too many books by French authors Who proclaim Your formative years teaches you, produces you Product of langue But it means nothing Take, look, touch as you please My history is dead, youll follow me into my disease This track is a unit within a system of signs This music and life style Take, look, touch as you please My history is dead, youll follow me into my disease My historys dead (x3) Her storys dead (x3) Your hardcore is dead (x3) Historys dead
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