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• Artiste: Sundays (The)
• Titre: Medicine
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Autrement, nous ne pouvons les corriger pas! Merci pour votre aide.
Dig down to the earth here outside, lose my mind here any day now. Don't be sad, we're only half way there, oh no, that's what I call home. You remember the hills we slithered down. "I'm not going anywhere," you lied. Hell on my own, hell here on my own and don't go imagining that time is medicine. Mark those days and swallow your pills, proud of my wise head on young shoulders. Too bad there was nothing there at all. Hell on my own, hell here on my own and it was such a really cold hand. I held as the wind sighed, "I'm not going and how could I lie?" Just be glad there's no way back there, I need another look at before though heaven knows how I'd ever make my way back there. And I need another look at before although heaven knows how I'd ever make my way back there. Now I know it's hopeless and I realize it's nowhere, hell here on my own.