Thursday, 7 May 2009

Baby it's cold outside.

I grow off words and feed off speeches
My brain doesn't house creativity
just prose-hungry leaches
Neil Young Neil Young Neil Young Neil Young
Where am I from where am I from? Bob Dylan Dylan
See this blonde hair
shinning underneath the swiss cottage underground light the light it stares
Pick this out Pick this out Pick this out
You who shouts me who stares she who listen's
See how that blonde hair glistens
the black mascarra doesn't highlight
It exaggerates because her eyes already show enough
They're, bright
Like a cowgirl in the sand
Like a ruby in the dust
Like the woman of my dreams
and the guitar solo inbetween
they speak
I wonder if she'll save me
I wish she'll make me feel alright
because while it's cold outside
If I can keep looking into those eyes
I'll be warm enough tonight.