7 acessos
Fog dangling thick
Can't see the right road, streets are sick
The eight day mill it might grind slow
But it grinds fine
Indian rope man, while looking on
Tells common clay he's heavenly born
Retired layman looks on in scorn
With a transplanted heart
Kiss him quick, he has to part
Indian rope man sees the times
Splitting loose the edge of minds
Catches losers in his line, in his line, yeah
Kiss him quick, he has to part
Fog dangling thick
Can't see the right road, streets are sick
The eight day mill it might grind slow
But it grinds fine
Indian rope man, while looking on
Tells common clay he's heavenly born
Retired layman looks on in scorn
With a transplanted heart
Kiss him quick, he has to part