chimney smoke lanes. November seems odd. You're my firing squad. November With my hair slicked back. With carrion shellac. With the blood from a pheasant. And the bone from a hare Tied to the branches
some ants that are swimming in shellac. - I won't do this again - No. . . No - I'll cut you in a minute. You know you should admit it- oh yeah. Here I go again. I should be among friends. I'll
some ants that are swimming in shellac. - I won't do this again - No. . . No - I'll cut you in a minute. You know you should admit it- oh yeah. Here I go again. I should be among friends. I'll
some ants that are swimming in shellac. - I won't do this again - No. . . No - I'll cut you in a minute. You know you should admit it- oh yeah. Here I go again. I should be among friends. I'll
now. Nine-year-old puts his money down. 45. Every scratch, every click, every heartbeat. Every breath that I held for you. 45. There's a stack of shellac and vinyl. Which is yours now and which
