Old English
lotteries and tents
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This company
Torn at the seams
Scattered like seed
A cold summerâs breeze
Summerâs disease
Is a part of me
And now all our days are spent
Losing lotteries and pitching tents
This canât be what you meant
For our knees to bruise
But barely leave a dent
Itâs always the same
The curse of this age
Is changing our names
Iâll cling to a grace
That feels far away
Iâm desperate for change
I find it hard to see
And itâs so hard to believe
This was always meant to be
- Album:
- Prose & Kahns
- Old English