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• Artiste: Saturday Looks Good To Me
• Titre: The Americans
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The way you talk could always make a fool of me Studying the patterns of your speech I was imagining a world just out of reach but brilliant, still And you were fumbling for something in your purse Wondering if things could get much worse And if you'd find a cure for all your endless ills There was a sound coming out of the way That you looked at me the day that we met Birds on the roof Cackle words like the pages of books upturned We were there and then we left With whiskey, blood and breath And the typical duress of being alive You thought the band was out of tune and overdressed Just your typical American b.s. There was a sound at the edge of your lips and the corners of your mouth The day that I left Birds on the roof mutter names out of context And summer burns down With a fluttering sound I was another rubber band around your wrist Staring at the stairway where we kissed were you Imagining a world that don't exist and never will, Or were you looking for my number in your purse? Light another cigarette And sing and curse Until the dancefloor dreams and the world is still.