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Every suntan tells stories and the shape of the white snitches fat men in tropical climes And you tell me you've been fucking King CreosoteAnd that I should've known for a while Watching the starlings as autumn draws in as they make ghosts across London Fields And I would've moved out there to be with you I would've moved out there for real Saw a choir of golden angels wearing matching rucksacks As they obscured the view to your train And I'm sorry if it seems like I'm rambling here... Just want to see the way the skin splits round his bones And the gurgling head in your lap And the arms of the crowd as they pull me away Letras de cancionesAnd the mud and the blood in the grass When we scraped our bones together we got fire... From Letras Mania