Paroles Tripping Horses de The Russian Futurists

The Russian Futurists
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  • Artiste: The Russian Futurists32661
  • Chanson: Tripping Horses
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Textes et Paroles de Tripping Horses



I drift off course I'm destined to be
Tripping horses in western movies and
Looking out the front door backing out and sending myself packing
You never seem to call anymore, you're always showing up late
You always fall to the floor
My handwriting is getting much worse, I can't remember last night
Is that a blessing or curse
I headed home with guts full of rye and a head full of thoughts
That seem to cut like a knife I feel it like the cold seeping in or a butterfly knife
With it's blade deep within and
I drift off course I'm destined to be
Tripping horses in western movies and
Looking out the front door backing out and sending myself packing
I tried with words to take her away, with nothing new left to say
I'm spewing paper mache
So call me but just let it ring once and we'll meet up in the fall
Or maybe when the spring comes
I'm building sets for suns on the stage, with a pen as a sword
And a gun as a page
Thank god there's still a few good ones left
A few more dead winter storms, a few more golden sunsets
I drift off course I'm destined to be
Tripping horses in western movies and
Looking out the front door backing out and sending myself packing
We all fall down, we walk on thin ice
We walk on thin ice, we walk on thin ice
So please call now the clock's at midnight
The clock's at midnight, the clock's at midnight
We all fall down, we walk on thin ice
We walk on thin ice, we walk on thin ice
So please call now the clock's at midnight
The clock's at midnight, the clock's at midnight
I drift off course I'm destined to be
Tripping horses in western movies and
Looking out the front door backing out and sending myself packing
You never seem to call anymore, you're always showing up late
You always fall to the floor
My handwriting is getting much worse, I can't remember last night
Is that a blessing or curse
I headed home with guts full of rye and a head full of thoughts
That seem to cut like a knife
I feel it like the cold seeping in or a butterfly knife
With it's blade deep within

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