Shot Through The Fog 歌词

	作曲 : JOHNSON GLEN ASHLEY
	作词 : Johnson, Raymonde
	Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock
	The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire
	I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice
	In a super 8 film colour haze, a scratched nostalgia that runs through my cogs - shot through the fog; time taking care of whatever I cared about
	So you are lost somewhere in here - your body, a raft,spinning towards the falls
	Your death claimed me too - there were two throats in the noose but mine now swallows whiskey, mine is not now bruised
	The black mouth of this month, bruised lips, black ice, forms a sickly smile across London's sky

	zuo qu : JOHNSON GLEN ASHLEY
	zuo ci : Johnson, Raymonde
	Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock
	The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire
	I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice
	In a super 8 film colour haze, a scratched nostalgia that runs through my cogs shot through the fog time taking care of whatever I cared about
	So you are lost somewhere in here your body, a raft, spinning towards the falls
	Your death claimed me too there were two throats in the noose but mine now swallows whiskey, mine is not now bruised
	The black mouth of this month, bruised lips, black ice, forms a sickly smile across London' s sky

	zuò qǔ : JOHNSON GLEN ASHLEY
	zuò cí : Johnson, Raymonde
	Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock
	The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire
	I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice
	In a super 8 film colour haze, a scratched nostalgia that runs through my cogs shot through the fog time taking care of whatever I cared about
	So you are lost somewhere in here your body, a raft, spinning towards the falls
	Your death claimed me too there were two throats in the noose but mine now swallows whiskey, mine is not now bruised
	The black mouth of this month, bruised lips, black ice, forms a sickly smile across London' s sky

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