(no subject)
. . . We travel like gypsies only
With worse luck and far less gold
We're the kids you used to love
But then we grew old
We're the lifers, here till the bitter end
Condemned from the start
Ashamed of the way
The songs and the words own the beating of our hearts . . .
I've been writing it for months. But it won't finish.
With worse luck and far less gold
We're the kids you used to love
But then we grew old
We're the lifers, here till the bitter end
Condemned from the start
Ashamed of the way
The songs and the words own the beating of our hearts . . .
I've been writing it for months. But it won't finish.