There's a son he is born
With a silver spoon in
Fourteen years have passed since that day
Your stories are the
We set out for the sea with icicles in our
In dynamite mine your hour will come
In a shower of
Hole up kid there's a storm comin' down
Work those fingers
There's a shred of guilt in every one of us
And
I steal a look between the blinds
I unwind
she sleeps
I've taken a hit or two
I've given quite a few
I
There is steam rising from the gravel on the road
There
At the end of the road he calls everyone home
Lately, lately we haven't been at our best
And maybe, maybe
In the valley the girl waits
At the back of a
Put the bullet in the barrell take the safety off
Your hourglass shape in the light half covered in cloth
Take the last bus home with the quarters in your
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