I am getting at But there again your head's got nothing in it By the way, you left without your hat I'm walking in the wind Looking at the sky Hanging
ترجمه: ترافیک. قدم زدن در باد.
I am getting at But there again your head's got nothing in it By the way you left without your hat I'm walking in the wind looking at the sky Hanging
kill a rabbit Swerve back into traffic, radio blastin' Slammed on the brakes, ya old bastard Tim zig-zaggin', hell, he in the back And girls sittin' on the trunk, droppin' wine glasses Wind
I'm living in the city Where the noise, it never stops How much pounding on the pavement Whizzes from traffic cops Nobody looks you in the eye here Walking
baby We will leave this path it was not made for man We'll find a new land But the traffic is jammed I would park but it's too far for walking
is shining on the path The wind is talking to the flowers And dogs and cat all take a bath And if you stop that talking You could hear the traffic sigh Throw away those keys start walking
my mood the day that art was murdered The wind blew a thin layer of dust on my garden bird Everything you knew was sideways and phallic The highways traffic
Transcriber: Awcantor@aol.com Spoken intro: And after three days of drinkin' with Larry Love I just get an inklin' to go on home So, I'm walkin' down
wheels, this is not an exercise, it's for real. I'm up here in the rushing wind, way down there. This town is just a traffic jam, you can't walk the streets
in my eyes but I'm looking for a harder crystal, I'm feeling for something smoother I'm listening for a starter pistol. three sheets to the wind and
for a walk, but always stood. Would you help him, if you could. One for a walk, but always stood. Would you help him, if you could. One for a walk
ground Between the traffic and the ordinary sounds I am thinking signs and seasons While a north wind blows through I watch as lovers pass me by Walking
So we left Beirut Willa and I He headed East to Baghdad and the rest of it I set out North I walked the five or six miles to the last of the street lamps
don't know I exist That's why my point is gettin' missed I walks with my brother Mike Sone, as I stroll thru the ghetto And the sun is like the wind beneath
the homeless man who walks my block in rainstorms with plastic bags on his feet see I throw away the tenders over one shoulder and walk across broken
talk to that toad Turtle don't cross here again And everybody goes Whichever way the wind blows Young chicken done cross that road He listen to traffic
is love, girl, call it what you will, This is love. As I sit, thoughts of the past surround me, All around, like the sound of the wind in winter, Now I walk
