Non si parla con la bocca piena.
Non si parla con la bocca piena.
I'm laying down, eating snow
My fur is hot, my tongue is cold
On a bed of spider web
I think of how to change myself
A lot of hope in a one man tent
There's no room for innocence
So take me home before the storm
Velvet mites will keep us warm.
Permessi di Scrittura
