A bale of hay, is always under those buildings.
Wail, then juking and jiving.
Like some clay, a ball, a brilliant ball.
Like an uncut, rough diamond.
Frizzy hair, it is my disorder.
With the Vietnam war, strings down around your shoulders.
The fly in my soup is doing the breast stroke.
Feel like your perfect around me, you don't ever seem to.
Tomorrow, I'll stick up my chin, and grin.
Cause I'd throw myself in front of a grenade for you.
Vietnam and Bruno Mars, I just sharted
ReplyDeleteIt was kind of hard to read, but I really like how you took parts from songs :)
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