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This is a dead letter tale |
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If I could make this prints talk |
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You made a deep mark, a deep mark on me |
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And only saints say such things as these |
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I slid under the floor |
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Under the oak and the iron |
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With you under oak and iron |
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Under the thick and under the thin |
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Where only fire grows |
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I forgot to tell you several things, Ma |
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I forgot to tell you several things, Ma |
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I forgot to tell you several things, Ma |
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I forgot to tell you 'bout the 7 sins |
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And I spat dead letter words |
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And all the breath that I own |
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Imprinted one word in red, I read |
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And only saints say such things as these |
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About the marks on your throat |
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Under the oak and the iron |
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Under the fat and the thick and the thin |
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And all of that, and a few 100 more |
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And only fire grows, I heard the fire grow alone in the |
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I forgot to tell you several things, Ma |
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I forgot to tell you several things, Ma |
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I forgot to tell you several things, Ma |
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I forgot to tell you 'bout the 7 sins |
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I forgot to tell you several things |
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I forgot to tell you several things |
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I forgot to tell you several things |
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I forgot to tell you 'bout the 7 sins |
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I forgot to tell you several things, Ma |
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I forgot to tell you several things, Ma |
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I forgot to tell you several things, Ma |
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I forgot to tell you 'bout the 7 sins, Ma |
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I forgot to tell you several things, Ma |
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I forgot to tell you several things, Ma |
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I forgot |
