6 کے بول

rules, fools, the idiots that shower them in flowers praise them great in open song color by numbers copy one another I'll wolf you promise stupid tiny bells ain't find no favor for stacking for the tilted this fairground is getting close to closing won't it stop me? rank, split, my eyes are choked with water seeing haters finger point at lesser skin rupture, young lovers with rape and rank it shudders me to see the better thing as sin I won't believe that her of ways, of worth, of less of him done back for others what split the hearts of mothers I know a quieting behind the corn scratches diseased from the pities you've passed around oh chicklet marry to me overseas