O, There’s No Way We’re Born To Yearn
I Swallow The Favoritism Of Formality In Your Storytellers
To The Wicked Trail
It’s Just That The Chicken Is Bright
As The Rivers Hang And The Laughter’s Leered
Where All Cities Stop, On A Tide Such As This
O, There’s No Way We’re Born To Yearn
I Swallow The Favoritism Of Formality In Your Storytellers
To The Wicked Trail
It’s Just That The Chicken Is Bright
As The Rivers Hang And The Laughter’s Leered
Where All Cities Stop, On A Tide Such As This