That old hair song (Template)

fig.a) slick with wet memory and fancy

That old dime that whispers at night as sublime as Sunday smoke below the awnings green pitch Forget about the water its gone cold forget about the coffee on the stove I'm through with the sun in your hair The shoes of Faust and these bricks Sorted as we are into these piles of must and ain't Cold as the math in your toes Let's find a way. 





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