|
If all the streets were water |
|
I'll sail down the rivers |
|
Under the the sheet of flowers |
|
I rest my head on her |
|
Whatever keeps me going |
|
Is stuck inside a dream, |
|
From what I see. |
|
In Los Angeles, |
|
The farther it hurts. |
|
And the last hit breathes? |
|
The old, I do admire |
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And where it might have been |
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For you are not allowed to tell me that I've sinned |
|
I'm looking for the good time |
|
To say that I have risen from what I've seen |
|
In Lost Angeles, |
|
The farther it hurts |
|
And the last hit breathes? |
|
All of the weight in the wide hist? of clouds |
|
? away, |
|
turning inside out |
|
There is a feeling that is swallowing |
|
My home every time that I lie in your bed |
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Don't know what is coming, didn't ask for a thing |
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Let it go, |
|
I'm here with you |
|
And please do not wait. |
|
To remind me ? |
|
If all the streets were water |
|
I'll sail down the rivers |
|
Under the the sheet of flowers |
|
I rest my head on her |
|
Whatever keeps me going |
|
Is stuck inside a dream, |
|
From what I see. |
|
In Los Angeles |
