Текст, перевод и аккорды “Black Out”
- Sunday driving past your own hall of fame Its closed on weekdays, shut for good Pick out no one when youre talkin Felt like rattlesnakes were walkin No one has a clue The parting shots, the thin caught Fault line dancing across the frigid air shafts A spastic grass, a criminals child Count to ten and read Until the lights begin to bleed Lights; til you actually a-see the rays And your thoughts they start turning Tells you lessons that youre learning No one has a clue The gauzy thoughts of those dirty scots Wrestling with the elements up on the trail high I need to know Where does it go? how do I get there? what will I find? (fun fun fun, fun for the summertime blues) (its gonna set you free)
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