Poems کے بول

Mary packed her bags and left home on a Christmas Eve For sea soaked skies and dashing lads with cars An actress orphaned by the social constructs of her art school A victim of their esoteric rule So pretentious that she almost thought it cool But all you'd hear is La, la, la, la, la Purpose was a vague ideal that she would always talk on Till she fell in love with the salesman from TV Yeah, she fell in love with a salesman from TV While all of Hollywood sang La, la, la, la, la Pearly, pretty prize, and a ribbon box of sighs In a collared shirt She thought it wouldn't hurt Certain love of mine with the palest blue eyes In a collared shirt I thought it couldn't hurt Wood flavored kiss taste the concrete of this It really fucked with me, it really fucked with me California eyes are a death witch from design You really fucked with me La, la, la, la, la