اصل بول
ENترجمہ ابھی دستیاب نہیں۔ اصل بول دکھائے جا رہے ہیں۔
Three on the backseat as we drive home from rehearsal
There's snow on the drums
The snare shudders like a cold ghost between my mittens
in the trunk, guitars slide like dead over dead
It's stopped snowing
We think we see foxes
I breathe a canvas on the window to write your name on the landscape
The sky is a grey flint from coast to coast with birds frozen in
Magic Trees share the dashboard with a Playdoh Jesus
Grapelli and Reinhardt lock horns on the radio
I draw a black skull on my jeans, not thinking, through to the skin
the headlamps come on at five
I miss you bad
