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Wired were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
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Wired were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
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My horse is a shackled old man |
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His, his remorse, was that he couldn't survey |
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The skies, right before, right before they went gray |
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My horse and my remorse flying over a great bay |
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Wired were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
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Wired were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
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My source is the source of all creation |
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Her, discourse is that we all don't survey |
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The skies, right before, right before they go gray |
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My source, and my remorse flying over a great bay |
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Wired were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
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Wired were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
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Where were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot? |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
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Where were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot? |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
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Wired were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
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Wired were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
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Where were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot? |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
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Where were the eyes of a horse on a jet pilot? |
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One that smiled when he flew over the bay |
