We've all seen deserters running to Redwood between old shears, shears of swamp gas. Looking for redemption where cons can't roll; Riders never wade old-fashioned crime scenes.
Wine is enough to stay wild a king writing a song. Wine is enough to say:
Sleepwalking a mile ahead, Wayland, you're running out of luck. You're falling down, drawn to the South.
Every color's like blood in our black lounge. It's pouring down like a cascade, up on the redding scene, your eyes will grasp Wymore's mother running like a crazy fuck.
Wine is enough to stay wild a king writing a song. Wine is enough to say:
Sleepwalking a mile ahead, Wayland, you're running out of luck. You're falling down, drawn to the South.
Look into your eyes... See what's on your soul... Rain is to dissolve...
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