Print

All hail the coming of the X's The coming of the O's I think I heard the preacher Speaking in a language no one knows Come on you fireside angels Vox, angelica vox Come on you fireside angels Vox, angelica vox Machine guns Made of celery and grapes Rooms full of cinema reels Horses made of light and steel Art is the motorcycle (and maybe the parachute) Paint your house The color of an eggshell And gag on the beauty Of the trees Come on you fireside angels Vox, angelica vox Come on you fireside angels Vox, angelica vox From Letras Mania