[spoken]
|
Then I went down into the basement
|
where my friend the maniac busy's himself with his electronic grafiti
|
Finally his language touches me
|
because he talks to the part of us
|
which insists on drawing profiles on prison walls.
|
In that moment poetry will be made by everyone
|
and there will be emu's in the zone...
|
|
Mist covers the ground
|
In the city
|
Engine rumbles quiet
|
As we drift by
|
|
I wish you could see it
|
Through my crooked eye
|
Oh your beauty
|
Plays me just like a guitar string (it's so true)
|
|
I want your touch
|
Oh how I want you far too much
|
She my baby
|
He's my baby
|
|
Ahhhhh [x8]
|
|
Days drift into one
|
It's so pretty
|
Travelling Wilbury's, Polly's photofits
|
And this stolen car
|
Is loaded with junk
|
It's so dirty
|
He'll be the death of me
|
But that's ok
|
|
I want your touch
|
Oh how I want you far too much
|
She my baby
|
He's my baby
|
|
Ahhhhh [x8]
|
|
-----------------
|
West Ryder Silver Bullet
|
| Kasabian |
